


in a dream

by shestepsintotheriver



Series: AUs [4]
Category: Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Accidentally Monogamous, Alternate Universe, Alternative Universe - Inception, Bucky is just here for The Drama, Enemies to Lovers, Enemy Lovers, M/M, Only Steve considers them enemies though, Post-Serum Steve Rogers, Pre-World War II Bucky Barnes, Sexual Content, Some chapters rated Explicit, certain Inception characters included, male lingerie, slight kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-25
Updated: 2020-08-07
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:21:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 21,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22407124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shestepsintotheriver/pseuds/shestepsintotheriver
Summary: Steve is an Architect. Bucky is a Point Man. They are some of the best in Dream-sharing.They are also arch nemeses.Or so Steve tells himself. Because Bucky is a menace, but he's also amazing, and now that they have to work together, all that tension has got to be worked out somehow before it ruins the job.What’s a little enemies-with-benefits between... well, enemies. And they are definitely enemies. Or so Steve tells himself.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Series: AUs [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1437799
Comments: 80
Kudos: 131





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> i know i should be working on my other fics, but consider this: i have no self-control 
> 
> should you see the movie Inception before reading this? I mean, it would help. I'm not gonna make references to the plot though, only the characters. if you haven't seen it and still want to read this fic, see the end note for a really brief explanation of terminology.
> 
> also: DISCLAIMER i own nothing  
> also also: for the more explicit chapter(s), i'll slap a warning in the AN at the beginning, in case u wanna skip 'em

When he’d first started out in dream-sharing, Steve had wanted to be an Extractor. Mostly because someone had said, ‘I don’t know, man, I don’t think you have the right kinda temper to be Extractor’. The words ‘career-ending disaster’ have been used to describe the outcome of that ordeal. Turns out, he did _not_ have the right kinda temper to be an Extractor.

So, he became an Architect. It’s the best thing that could’ve happened to him. His reputation soared seemingly overnight, and twelve years later, Steve isn’t quite sure what he would’ve done with himself if dream-sharing hadn’t worked out. Few of those who have found their way here find a way to leave it behind. Some retire… but only for a little while. Like Dom Cobb, that crazy bastard, may he and Steve never work another job together.

He mostly does corporate dreaming. Once the provenance of criminals, it now attracts more and more ordinary (insanely wealthy) people, and while it is still highly illegal, money makes the world go ‘round and all that jazz. No one’s going to arrest a billionaire for running around Westeros in a goddamned dream. As a result, Steve has got more in common with nine-to-five workers than any criminal should have. His life is almost normal. Full of routines, paperwork, and annoying clients. 

Pays well, too. And it’s not that Steve is bored with what he does; going corporate has allowed him to develop dreams and methods he never would’ve had the time (or financial backing) to explore otherwise. It’s just that…

Okay, so he gets bored. Infuriatingly so.

You would, too. There’s only so many times you can recreate goddamn _Star Wars_ for some billionaire playboy without a single original thought in his head. In fact, almost ninety percent of Steve’s jobs are based on recreating some movie or other. All of his clients are rich assholes with money to burn, the kind of people who desperately need to see a therapist for their cocktail of personality disorders and huge egos.

Steve has started overcharging, just on principle. (What? They’re _billionaires_. It’s not like they were going to use those money for good, or the world wouldn’t be the shithole it is. Not even Tony Stark gets a discount, and he’s both Steve’s friend and patron. In fact, depending on how annoyed Steve is with him, he charges extra. Like he said: money isn’t a problem for him anymore).

But over and over and over he designs the same goddamn dreams. He has _templates_ now. That’s how uniform his job has become. The only thing that really changes is the Dreamer. And even that is predictable. Rich, fickle, entitled. There’s no rush, no challenge, no stakes. When they go in, all Steve has to do is keep the dream stable, that’s it. It’s a long way from where he started. (Though sometimes, depending on how dickish his client is, Steve steals a secret, just for insurance. Or blackmail. Because rich people need to have the fear of God put in them sometimes. Oftentimes. Whatever) _._

Who would’ve thought a life of semi-crime would be so boring?

Steve needs a break from the monotony. And he _did_ say he only _mostly_ does corporate work… meaning that he does it until the very sight of his clients makes him want to invest in a guillotine. And then? Then sends out feelers, finds a different kind of job. _Then_ Steve Rogers comes back to life.

And he can always count on Sam Wilson to lead the way.

Well. _Almost_ always.

“I have good news and bad news,” he tells Steve, leading him through the maze of hallways that constitutes the lower level of a condemned university building in Paris’ eighteenth _arrondissement_. Steve is jetlagged as fuck and smells like stale, recycled air. This is just cruel and unusual punishment. “The good news is: I finally got Natasha Romanoff on board. She flew in yesterday, set up shop.”

“I’ve heard good things about her.” Interesting rumors, too, about her training, and Steve really wants to find out if they’re true. “Which begs the question: why aren’t you more excited?”

“Yeah, well. That’s where the bad news comes in.” Sam pauses outside a closed door, grabs Steve by the shoulders. “Before I tell you… promise me that you won’t fly off the handle.”

Steve squints. “O…kay?”

“Promise me you won’t quit.”

“I won’t quit.”

“And don’t kill anyone. Or main. Or ‘forcibly enact surprise-facial reconstruction’. Promise me. Or I will sic your Ma on you.”

“Sam, what the fuck?”

Sam draws a deep breath, squares his shoulders. “There were certain… logistics that Romanoff wouldn’t budge on. Certain demands that I had to meet before she agreed to take the job. I got Sharon to broker it, it’s done, there’s nothing we can do now, so _be nice_.”

“I’m always nice.” Whatever it is, it can’t be that bad. Forgers are megalomaniacs, everybody knows that; they all think they’re the next Eames, and Steve has had to tolerate his share of weirdo demands before. (Also: no one is the next Eames. No one else can pack that much sheer audacity into their every cell like that man can). “You gonna explain or what?”

In response, Sam throws the door open. “Just remember: you promised.”

Steve’s not listening anymore. Because in the spot obviously, _indubitably,_ reserved for the Architect slouches a man. He’s all long, tanned limbs and oozing charm, hair slicked back carelessly, coming undone in thick, soft waves. He’s got the face of an angel and the fashion sense of a hipster transplanted to the future from 1930s, is dressed in a white undershirt, old-timey button suspenders, slim-cut, herringbone-patterned trousers, and an untucked, unbuttoned striped shirt falling open over his chest. It’s short-sleeved and oversized, makes him look amazing.

He’s the kind of man who deserves to be immortalized in paintings of Eros, of Lucifer himself, the reincarnated Patroclus, unclouded by war or strife, temptation and irreverence in every line. He’s so beautiful he makes your breath catch, makes your heart speed up, makes you drop your pants.

“Hey, Stevie,” Bucky purrs.

He is the single-worst person to have slithered their way into existence.

“ _You promised!_ ” Sam whisper-shouts, grabbing at Steve’s arm before Steve can pull the knife he always carries.

Steve glares at him, mouth pinched. It’s not like he was going to cut Bucky’s pretty face up, just throw the knife at him a little. Bucky knows how to duck, he would’ve been _fine_. But fair, Steve knows a losing battle when he sees one (that’s a lie). Instead of flicking sharp objects at the demon sitting in Steve’s goddamned chair, he takes a couple of deep breaths, counts down from ten.

Moving slowly so as not to set off Sam, he walks around the table to loom over Bucky. Said imp just tilts his head back, baring his throat daringly and grinning at Steve like there’s nowhere else he’d rather be, as if causing Steve to frown so hard he’s sure to develop wrinkles is his one goal in life. To be extra petty, Bucky slouches down and smacks his lips, all ‘oh I’m _sorry_ , was this _your_ seat? Not anymore, sucker’. He’s going to be riding on Sam’s ability to keep Steve from throttling him, Steve just knows it.

Instead of slapping him like he so dearly deserves, Steve grabs the back of the rolling chair and sends it careening through the room, spinning wildly. Bucky brays with laughter, kicking out his legs like a child as he goes flying.

Sam sighs and rubs his temples. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dream-sharing: the business of dream workers and dream thieves. several individuals create and share a dream.
> 
> architect: thief in charge of building the dream from the ground up
> 
> point man: basically the researcher/backbone of the operation 
> 
> extractor: the thief in charge of stealing information from the dream
> 
> forger: highly skilled thief who can shapeshift into someone else in the dream
> 
> the dreamer/the target: the person the dream is built for and whom the thieves intend to steal from
> 
> Somnacin: the drug used for dream-sharing
> 
> PASIV: the device used to share the dream


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which Steve hopes to get rest and is sorely disappointed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a few more Inception explanations in the end-note! 
> 
> BEWARE: around the time Steve arrives back at his hotel, things start moving into NSFW-territory

Though Steve hadn’t noticed, Natasha had been in the room all along. Sam introduces them, ignoring the way Steve glares at Natasha for having brought Bucky along. For her part, Natasha seems to be thoroughly enjoying the tension in the room, sly smirk barely contained as her eyes dances between Steve and Bucky. Steve glares harder, then goes to hide in the ‘kitchen’ (aka: the small area Sam has set up with a coffee maker, a mini-fridge, and various snacks). Dream-sharing: truly the most glamorous business. 

In another world, Steve would be thanking his lucky stars that they’re getting Bucky. He _is_ one of the best Point Men in the business, especially when you can’t get Arthur himself since he fucked off to… fuck Eames, or whatever it is anal-retentive Point Men do when they’re set free from a life on the run and finally get to go on their honeymoon. Except Steve would rather rip out his own tongue and eat it with a nice Burgundy wine than do say any such thanks.

Bucky is… first of all, he’s _the worst_. Even worse than rich people. Let’s just get that noted down real quick. He’s a vain, meddlesome, dishonest pimple on the cock of humanity and you should under no circumstance ever, _ever,_ trust him. You might as well slather your newborn in BBQ and hand it over to starving cannibals.

And fuck, he’s so pretentious. Like, who the fuck does he think he is? Bucky No-Last-Name. Because he’s a person of intrigue, or whatever the shit it is he usually says, and those kinds of people can’t have something as pedestrian as a last name. It’s like he thinks he’s fucking Eames. Or Arthur. Or Ariadne, or Yusuf, or—but that’s different, because _they’re_ the gods of dream-sharing, and _Bucky_ is some horrible mutant faerie child inflicted on humanity to make you tear out your hair and dive straight into an early grave.

Steve would know.

One of the first successful jobs he ever worked was with Bucky. He’d been so young then, much too young, lean as a sapling, and with everything to prove, whatever the cost. And Bucky had been… well, he’d been interesting. Full of himself, and so fucking brilliant; there wasn’t a secret he couldn’t get to, or a twist he didn’t see coming. Nothing had been more important that impressing him.

And maybe Steve tried. And maybe he succeeded. For a little while.

It didn’t stop Bucky from betraying h—them. Their team.

Two-timing fucking fuck.

Steve loathes him. It’s a mutual thing, except Bucky delights in the antagonism, goes out of his way to exacerbate it whenever they’re forced to work together since then (because somehow, Bucky is on every fucking non-corporate job that Steve takes. Because he’s _the worst_ and probably exists solely to make Steve’s life hell). Backstabbing is a part of the game, and as long as no one dies, people in the business are willing to forgive, if not forget. Steve will do neither. _Ever_. 

“How could you do this to me?” he demands, chugging lukewarm, horrible coffee like vodka shots, glaring daggers at the Worst Person Ever still lolling about in _Steve’s_ goddamn chair, fingers steepled like a cartoon villain while he smirks at them from across the room. He’s half in conversation with Natasha, but it can’t be that important or she would’ve shanked him for inattention by now.

“It’s not like I set out to hire him specifically,” Sam says, rolling his eyes skyward. “I told your there were concessions—”

“I thought we were friends, Sam. And you inflict _him_ on me?”

“Lord give me strength.”

“You know what happened the last time we had to work together? I got banned. From Russia. _We weren’t even_ _in Russia_!”

“Good times,” Bucky says, somehow right next to Steve.

Steve, not missing a beat, seizes him by the shirtfront and throws him up against the wall, growling in his face like some rabid animal. “I will rip out your spine and garotte you with it—”

Bucky pushes into it. “Do your worst, pretty boy—”

“ _Why are you like this?_ ” Sam despairs.

“No, no, please continue, this is the most fun I’ve had in ages,” Natasha pipes in.

“ _Where the hell did you get the vodka?_ ”

*

After it is established that, yes, Sam will absolutely have to double-time it as a kindergarten teacher for this job, they get down to business. With Bucky and Steve on opposite sides of the room, Sam walks them through the job, gleefully rolling in portable whiteboards for the occasion, because no matter what he says, he is a nerd at heart and at least as dramatic as Steve himself.

Their target is Georges Batroc, formerly French spec ops, currently mercenary. He does a bit of everything; you name it, he’ll do it—as long as you got the money. Except recently, he appears to be going straight, working security for various high-profile people, no particular rhyme or reason. You’d almost think he’s been trying to turn his act around.

Except their client—name redacted—doesn’t think so. He wants them to find out who’s behind Batroc’s change of heart, what they’re ultimately planning to use him for, and deliver indisputable proof that Batroc’s employer is breaking the law. As in, their client wants _them_ to break the law to prove that _their target’s employer_ broke the law.

“Meaning, of course, that our esteemed client has already tried the strictly legal route,” Bucky chimes in. During briefings he doesn’t antagonize Steve too much—apart from the lewd way he’s sitting in _Steve’s motherfucking chair,_ legs spread like some ten-dollar hussy.

“Yup,” Sam confirms. “But he’s got zero qualms about using less legal means to get results, so we won’t be implicated even if it goes tits up. Sharon’s worked with him before, she’s vouched for him. We’re as safe as dream-sharing gets.”

The rest of the evening they spend brainstorming. Bucky’s done a ton of preliminary research on Batroc—he really is good at what he does, damn him to hell and back—but until Natasha starts her surveillance, they won’t know for sure what kind of dream they’ll need to build. That means that Steve doesn’t have that much to do for now, can only make notes on what kind of compounds they might need, guessing at the Somnacin mix. He’ll need to get in touch with Bruce Banner—Steve works pretty exclusively with him as his Chemist these days.

Around three o’clock, Sam releases them from work, and they make their way back to their hotels separately. They’re partnered up at two different hotels, within walking distance of one another. It’s just part of the work, this cloak-and-dagger shiftiness. You get used to it.

You also get used to being paired with the person you least want to be paired with.

Steve’s already been to the hotel to drop his bag and pick up his keycard, so he makes his way past the reception with only a hello and rides the elevator up. Fuck, he’s tired. So tired he can’t even appreciate the dark and curious architecture of the hotel, that intricate, over-the-top _Belle Époque_ style that appeals to the artist in him. He just wants to go to his room, shower, and collapse face-first onto the bed, sleep through the jetlag and ignore Bucky, who is probably consorting at this exact moment. Because that’s just how Steve’s luck works.

His keycard isn’t fucking working.

Impatient, Steve jams it into the reader again, muttering under his breath. He’s not usually hot-tempered with inanimate objects, but right now, he’s _this_ close to kicking down the door if the stupid card won’t fucking—

It’s not the card for his room.

Looking at the pale gold writing, it’s stated quite clearly that this card is for one of upper floor suites, not the ‘ordinary’ rooms that are still hellishly expensive. There’s only one way this card could’ve come into his possession, only one person who’d be outrageous enough to rent out a fucking suite instead of a normal room like a normal person. (And only one person who’d been close enough to switch the keycards around).

“ _Bucky_ ,” Steve growls, turning on his heel.

He rides the elevator up, foot tapping angrily. As luck would have it, he encounters no one on his way to Bucky’s room—but if he had, those people would’ve had the pleasure of witnessing a grown man sulking like a two-year-old.

The door to Bucky’s room opens on the first try, cheerily beeping at Steve. He stomps through the short hallway, nearly trips over the settee there and pretends he meant to do that, and finally emerges into the lush bedroom. It’s all blacks and golds, intricate wall-paper and luxurious furniture. The door to the bathroom is open, showing an invitingly dark room.

It’s the height of hedonism.

And then there’s Bucky.

“Fancy seeing you here,” he says with a straight face, comfortably splayed on the bed with his back against the plush headboard. He’s fiddling with a scrap of silk—a tie, it looks like. He has dressed down. Or rather: dressed in nothing but a sheet that only barely covers his lower body.

Steve is fit to throw a tantrum, but he’s also tired, and Bucky is just sitting there like he has any fucking right to look so good, and Steve _has had it._ “I am gonna shower,” he says in low voice, spitting out the words between clenched teeth. “And when I get out, I’m gonna fuck some fucking decorum into you.” He stalks towards the bathroom.

“Or,” Bucky calls, voice trilling at Steve’s back. “You could just take me now.” He kicks off the sheet, revealing long tanned legs, his hard cock, and a sheen between his thighs from where he’s been opening himself up, waiting for Steve. Bucky grins, arches his back, snaps the tie in his hands tight. “Come wreck me, baby.”

Steve’s not a saint, okay?

What he is, is a man under pressure, a man who has had enough.

He prowls towards Bucky, palms his thigh and spreads him out, putting him on display for Steve’s greedy eyes. God, it’s been months since the last time; he’s already salivating, stiffening in his pants, and an aroused flush makes his face burn bright red.

He leans in close, close enough that their lips almost touch, but jerks away when Bucky lunges upwards, that lush, pouty mouth already open with want. Instead of giving him what he wants, Steve steals the tie from Bucky’s hands—black with green-gold accents; the fucker brought a tie to match the fucking suite, what a pretentious fucking dick—wraps one end around Bucky’s wrist, winds it through the slats at the base of the headboard, and binds Bucky’s other wrist.

Bucky is pliant, always goes so soft when Steve’s got his hands on him, angelic face openly gleeful. He’s used to getting his way, was from the very first time he took Steve to bed, back when Steve was a hundred pounds soaking wet and more a novelty than anything else. He still hates Bucky a little for that, for the way he wrapped Steve around his fingers to easily, only to betray h—their team mere hours after.

God, does Steve hate him.

He pads Bucky’s cheek—none too gently—and goes to have his shower.

The outraged squawk behind him is the best thing he’s heard all day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inception: the act of implanting an idea in a dreamer's mind without the dreamer knowing
> 
> Chemist: person in charge of the Somnacin and care of the PASIV
> 
> I name-dropped a lot of characters in this one, so here's a brief explanation of their roles in the Inception movie:
> 
> \- Dominic 'Dom' Cobb: main character. Extractor. needs so much therapy. saw his wife commit suicide, became wanted for her 'murder', had to flee America and their children. he has one setting and it is Pretentious Asshole. 
> 
> \- Arthur: Point Man. perfectionist. likes suits and moleskine notebooks. ultimate ride or die motherfucker. he's the only reason anyone is still alive. calls Eames 'Mr. Eames' and acts surprised when Eames does something clever.
> 
> \- Eames: Forger. pretends he's really impulsive, but he's actually really thoughtful. his fashion-sensed got rickrolled in an alley and he now looks like a corporate 70s hippie. calls Arthur 'darling' and deliberately annoys him. (sidenote: they are somehow not a couple, but ignore that)
> 
> \- Ariadne: Architect. new to dream-share, but really promising and inventive. should've been the main character.
> 
> \- Yusuf: Chemist. good at keeping secrets for people. really kind and patient, very easy-going. doesn't always think things through despite how smart he is.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which Steve and Bucky work out their frustrations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is NSFW.
> 
> also! i'm gonna be hitting exam mode again, might disappear a little bit.

The thing is… the thing is.

Steve is a stubborn, bitchy asshole on the best of days. It’s how he’s survived childhood illnesses and relentless bullying and now a life of crime. It’s how he gets through punk-ass back alley fights, snobbish clients, and Tony freaking Stark invading his space at two in the morning demanding his attention for some crazy invention or other.

But when it comes to Bucky, all that backbone has about as much structural integrity as soft-serve ice cream in tropical heat. Especially when Bucky is naked and demanding.

So while, yes, Steve does take his shower, it’s a quick scrub only, just to remove the stale smell and sweat from his flight in. He’s only going to get dirty again, anyway. He rubs a bit of toothpaste over his teeth with his finger, because he’s got absolutely no dignity. His cock is only getting harder as the minutes pass and Bucky doesn’t come barging into the bathroom. That means that Bucky has _stayed_ tied up. Steve _knows_ he can slip the knots. This isn’t their first trip down Kink Street. It means Bucky _wants_ it like this.

In short: the whole cheek-slap thing? A smokescreen for how badly Steve wanted to go to his knees at the very sight of him, how his brain always leeks straight out of him the minute Bucky so much as looks at him, all that animosity turning on its head and emerging as something brighter, something so all-consuming it’s like divine communion when they finally come together.

Steve was raised a Catholic, was both baptized and confirmed, has gone to midnight mass and Sunday sermons, has spoken the words and said the vows, but nothing, _nothing_ , is as heavenly as Bucky’s body.

Heavy-lidded and panting with his head thrown back in ecstasy and his hands restrained over his head, there’s not a single angel or demon that could rival him. His body is an altar, and Steve worships between his thighs, working him over with hard, sharp thrusts that make the bed slam against the wall. If it wasn’t for the plush headboard, they’d have been getting noise complaints already.

Bucky isn’t particularly loud when he’s getting fucked, but he makes his own kind of noises, gasps and breathless moans. In Steve’s lust-drenched mind, there’s not a single sound like it; if he could, he would use it as his totem, tuck it inside himself and have it play out across every dream he’s ever made. Because every time with Bucky is too good to be true.

“ _Ah_ , Stevie, please,” Bucky pleads when Steve changes the angle.

He’s got Bucky’s legs thrown over his arms, his knees hooked near his elbow. On his knees, now leaning forward to balance his hands on the bed, spreading Bucky even more, he starts jackrabbiting the exact spot that makes Bucky go crazy, makes him throw his head from side to side, gorgeous ass clenching down on Steve so sweetly. He hadn’t needed any extra prep, had made himself ready before Steve showed up. Steve had just slid right in.

With avid hunger, Steve lets the vision burn itself into his mind, lets himself feel and taste and see and hear it all, wanting to preserve it for the long months ahead of him, for when he goes back to his life and to hating Bucky. It’ll keep him warm, keep him sated. He doesn’t need much, just this memory. God, he’s lost count of how many times he’s touched himself to a memory of Bucky.

But he’s just… he’s _glorious_. Marked up by Steve’s mouth all over his chest, nipples perked and wet, his hair a curly mess. Their bodies are so sweaty they’re in danger of just melting together. And when Bucky comes? _God_.

Steve knows it’s going to happen, feels it coming maybe even before Bucky himself does. He flutters around Steve, so strongly Steve feels it even through the condom. His voice goes high, little moans slipping out, staccato, and he fixes his eyes on Steve. He _always_ looks at Steve when he comes, even if Steve’s got him bent over, face-first in a pillow; he always manages to turn his head and look.

That, more than even the feeling of him, pushes Steve towards the edge, hips stuttering against Bucky’s ass, the slap of their skin stuttering in rhythm.

When Bucky comes, he goes quiet, mouth falling open. He clenches down, shaking, cock spurting all over his belly. Steve holds himself back as long as he can, until Bucky goes limp, then hammers in the last few thrusts, hard enough to make Bucky squirm from too-much, too-sensitive. When Steve comes, it’s with a groan, control gone.

Bucky’s legs can’t quite bend back far enough for Steve to just collapse on him, but untangling them a bit is graceless and clumsy. Letting Bucky’s legs fall down from their cramped position, Steve slumps onto him, vindictively delighting in the huff of breath he gets in return. He buries his face in Bucky’s neck, breathes him in.

He hates him, but… there’s no end to the excuses he’s willing to pull to get this, too.

Slowly, he unties Bucky, clumsy fingers barely able to loosen the knots. Bucky’s still all glassy-eyed and floaty, humming with every touch and curling into it. As if Steve didn’t _just_ put him through the mattress. He never truly stops being a demanding little shit, wriggling against Steve as he tries to massage feeling back into Bucky’s hands. He even whines grumpily when Steve doesn’t kiss him fast enough.

He’s so fucking needy. Nothing Steve does is ever enough.

Not that that has stopped him yet. He never really did get over the need to impress.

Speaking of: “Stay here, I’m not tired yet. The love-seat looks sturdy, go sit, I wanna ride you.”

“I’m not nineteen anymore, you know,” Steve grumps, ignoring the interested twitch of his cock. He’s not even pulled the condom off yet, has barely pulled out of Bucky.

“That sounds like a personal problem,” is the retort. Bucky nips at his ear, tongues the sensitive spot just below and Steve _melts_. “Come _on_ , Stevie.”

Demanding fucking prick.

*

The love-seat _is_ sturdy.

*

“Wait, we left at the same time, how did you get here before me?”

“I got a cab, dumbass.”

“Wow, desperate.”

“Wow, look who’s getting cilantro on their burger.”

“Don’t you fucking dare, Buck—GIMME THE PHONE!”

*

“It’s late, I gotta go back to my room, my things are there—”

“Mm, no. I went in and picked up some things for you.” Kisses along his jaw.

Steve sighs. “Of course, you did. Also, gimme back my fucking keycard.”

*

In the morning, so early that their alarms haven’t even gone off yet, Steve wakes to Bucky nuzzling his neck, sucking little kisses that won’t leave a mark. He’s half on his back, hips twisted towards Bucky, morning wood happily perking up further from the attention.

Because he is only sleepy and not stupid, Steve mumbles, “What do you want.”

Bucky pouts against him but doesn’t outright deny anything. “Your breath stinks.”

“Then get outta my face.”

More pouting. “I don’t wanna kiss you when your breath smells, but I want your mouth. You should suck me.”

“Go fuck yourself.”

“But Steeeeeevieeeee,” Bucky whines. “I want it.”

“Sounds like a personal problem.” He hides his face with his arm, pretends he’s settling in for more sleep. They both know that that’s not happening, but pretending is all he’s got and God damn it, he’s going to cling to it. 

Bucky straddles him, roves his hands across Steve’s chest. Steve refuses— _refuses, dammit!_ —to blush when Bucky cups his pecs, thumbs his nipples. Bucky’s got a thing for Steve’s chest; ‘a thing’ being ‘has raved about fucking Steve’s tits before’. Not a lot can make Steve squirm, but any sort of appreciation for his body is foul play, and Bucky abuses it mercilessly.

Case in point: “I brought panties.” Steve stiffens. He can _hear_ Bucky smirking. “And the mirror can be moved in front of the bed, you can watch…”

“ _Fucking fine_!” Steve snarls. God, Bucky is going to lord this over him for _years._ “But you do the fucking work.”

“Aw, baby, if you want me to fuck your face, all you gotta do is say please.”

Steve stays wisely silent and maneuvers Bucky upwards. Steve’s scoots up, too, props himself up generously with a couple of pillows; all Bucky needs to do is straddle Steve’s chest and grab the headboard. Bucky’s not much for topping, only does so if he has a particular itch to scratch, but this? This, he _loves._

There’s not much work to it, at first. Bucky has been awake for a while, is already hard, just feeds Steve his cock in fits and starts, thumbs his mouth open and murmurs praise when he slips free with a pop. Steve just angles his head right and tucks away his teeth, tries not to drool too much.

But Bucky makes that hard.

“Pretty baby, look at you,” he murmurs softly, petting Steve’s hair. A whine almost makes it out of Steve’s throat, but he forces it down, grabs Bucky’s thighs and squeezes. Why must Bucky always talk, why does he always know just what to say to break Steve? “Baby, _baby_ , God, your pretty mouth, I’m lost, baby doll, you take such good care of me, look at me, sweetheart, yeah, that’s it, suck me, God, _honey_.”

Steve can’t bear to look at him for long, not like this. It’s too much, too overwhelming, between the feel of Bucky’s cock in his mouth, Bucky’s hands in his hair, the way his thighs and ass clench as he thrusts forwards, gentle, lazy, taking his time and driving Steve crazy.

“Touch yourself, sweetheart. I know, I know, it’s okay, go ahead.”

Steve moans, the vibrations making Bucky tremble, and slides his hand down to jerk his cock. It’d be too dry, normally, but Steve’s leaking precum like a broken faucet, sticky and wet and amazing. His jaw is starting to ache, and there’s drool on his chin, and Bucky keeps popping free just to see Steve chase after him, licking his taste off his lips.

And Bucky tastes—well, he tastes like skin, sleep-warm and musky, precum bitter-sweet somehow, and he’s so big in Steve’s mouth, stretching him wide open, helpless to do anything but lick and suck and moan. They don’t use a condom for this, even though they should; they’ve got no allegiance to each other outside their jobs together, Bucky could be fucking his way through America for all Steve knows, they never promised anything. What’s there to say? _Don’t fuck anyone else, I want you to hate me exclusively_? Right. Good talk.

So what if Steve hasn’t fucked anyone else for the last… holy shit, _decade_?

“Steve? Sweetheart?” Bucky murmurs. Blinks harder, noting Steve’s petrified surprise. “Are you okay?”

Panicking, Steve takes him deep, sucks hard and hollows his cheeks. Bucky moans sharply, hips jerking. Steve breathes through it, tries not to gag. _What the fuck, what the fuck, what the fuck—a decade? A fucking DECADE?_

Bucky pulls his hair and Steve comes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inception vocabulary addition:
> 
> totem: a small object that each professional dreamer uses to tell reality from a dream. Examples: a chess piece, a poker chip, a spinning top, or a die.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which the team gets to work and Steve has a bit of a rough day

“So the rumors are true? You were really trained by Eames?” Steve asks.

Natasha hums. “The trick is to make Arthur like you first. Which is why Bucky was never trained by either of them, ‘cause Arthur really hates him.”

“Lies and slander,” Bucky calls back lazily, words half-mumbled because of the pen he’s got between his teeth. He’s wearing a short-sleeved, yellow, button-down shirt that is specifically designed to drive Steve insane. He looks like he’s been _debauched_. Granted, Bucky always looks well-fucked, but today that’s actually the truth, and Steve would rather not have Sam or Natasha take notice of this.

“Is that why he stabbed you?” Natasha shouts back.

“That was a friendly stabbing!”

“Hm, sure. You ever met them, Steve?”

“Nah. Met Cobb, though.”

Nat laughs at his grimace. “I think Arthur would like you.”

“Arthur likes Eames, too, you shouldn’t put too much stock in his opinion,” Bucky butts in.

She rolls her eyes skyward. She and Bucky have clearly known each other a while. Dream-share doesn’t foster deep and abiding relationships; they’re all criminals, it’s best to keep your cards close to your chest. They must’ve met somewhere else. Given the way they move around each other, they might even have been lovers at some point.

Not that Steve cares. 

Following this morning’s unwelcome realization, he’d done some frantic soul searching while Bucky was in the shower. It may have been a decade since he last slept with someone else (which: what the freaking fuck), but he’s dated some, recently, even, and that’s all that matters. He’s also kissed other people—goodbye pecks only, but still. He’s just not felt a spark with anyone, and that’s the _only_ reason he hasn’t let them take him to bed.

It’s not because of Bucky.

That’d be too much investment in a relationship based on pissing each other off (and _getting_ each other off). Even if Bucky has been sleeping with other people, Steve can still trust him to not fuck around with his health. Bucky wouldn’t lie about something like that, and not only because dream-sharing, with all its needles and blood, requires a clean bill of health.

With that settled, Steve had been able to carry out the morning as normal. Bucky had prodded some, but since Steve had shrugged it off so easily, he’d let it go and instead annoyed Steve into dressing in the clothes that Bucky had picked out of his suitcase. You’d think he’d hand-picked silks and cashmere instead of an old, soft, gray Henley and worn-in jeans (both part of Steve’s non-corporate wardrobe. On second thought, the Henley may be one of Bucky’s ‘boring’ cast-offs; it certainly is tight).

The last worries had fled Steve’s mind as Bucky had pushed him up against the wall and claimed Steve’s mouth before they had to leave for work. Acting put upon, Steve had let Bucky control the kiss right up until he started whining about not being paid enough attention; then, Steve had pulled Bucky in and erased any memory of his earlier slip-up with his tongue.

Everything is under control.

Even better: they had been the first ones in, so no one had been around to see Steve trip Bucky and make a mad dash for Steve’s chair. Which he has refused to get out of since then, because Bucky is a petty little shit who _will_ claim it if Steve even thinks of getting up. Sam had _not_ been happy to see Steve scoot around the room, running over cables left, right, and center.

They’ve been hard at work all morning. Steve’s been on the phone with Bruce, ordering compounds. Meanwhile, Bucky’s been cutting through firewalls like a hot knife through soft butter, carefully ransacking Batroc’s online presence, and Nat and Sam have been discussing how to go about the extraction itself.

“Alright, kiddies,” Sam calls. “It’s nearly noon, so let’s turn to the real problems here: what’s for lunch and who’s picking it up? I’m game for pretty much anything.”

“That weird pizza place, you know the one,” Natasha says at once.

“Burgers,” Bucky demands, like they didn’t get burgers for dinner just yesterday.

“But baguettes,” Steve whines, because they’re in France, and the baguettes just taste better here.

Because there is no God, they end up with the weird pizza place, and Steve gets to go get it. He scrolls through the menu, wincing with each item. What is it with the French and eggs on pizzas? And why the fuck do they use sour cream as a topping? There’s also one with mustard. Steve may need to go lie down for a while; he’s a New Yorker, he can afford to be snobby about pizza.

However, Bucky is also a New Yorker—a fellow Brooklynite, even—and he’s not acting stroppy. God, he probably even likes the weird pizzas. His family must be so disappointed in him. What disgrace.

“Hold up, Stevie,” he calls as Steve’s heading out the door. He ambles up, pulls a few extra notes from his wallet, and hands them to Steve. Nat and Sam are both watching them avidly. “Get yourself something nice, pretty boy.” And winks.

Steve doesn’t push him through the window, but it is a close call.

*

Steve uses Bucky’s extra money to buy a big bucket of chicken wings. And a Twix bar, but that’s for later. He’s already planning on not sharing, but seeing Bucky slouched in Steve’s chair when he returns just decides him, no matter how much Bucky makes grabby hands. There’s a fifty-fifty chance that he’s not actually hungry—there is still pizza left—and just wants to act the crybaby.

Steve will not give in to him.

Meanwhile, Natasha explains the plan, gesticulating elegantly with her pizza slice and somehow not dropping either crumbs or toppings everywhere. “Based on Bucky’s research, Batroc doesn’t socialize outside his merc buddies, so I’m going to forge one of them—American fella by the name of Brock Rumlow. They’re more or less equals at the security company, but mission reports indicate that Rumlow is his superior in the field. It won’t look strange if Rumlow changes their orders, or if he appears to know more than Batroc. I’ll be shading him for the next week or so.”

“That’s good. And Steve, I was thinking at least two dream levels,” Sam adds. “You think that’ll do?”

Steve nods. “Maybe plan for a third, too, just in case.”

“Your call. Bucky, anything to add?”

Bucky gets up. His smirk says he knows Steve’s just dying to make a run for his chair. He’s distracted however, by Bucky’s shirt, which is unbuttoned almost down to his bellybutton. It’s like he _wants_ to be mistaken for a sex-worker. “It goes without saying that Batroc has been through subconscious security training. It’s not extensive, as far as his profile indicates, but let’s be on the safe side and overcompensate, yeah?”

They all nod. Subconscious security is always a bitch to deal with, no matter the level of training. Even beginners can derail a dream almost entirely, shattering the maze in a second if you’re not careful. There’s really only one way to get around it completely, but that type of dreaming isn’t just difficult, it’s outright dangerous if the Architect hasn’t been trained properly. Steve makes a note of it, then turns to plotting the mazes.

For the first level, he plots a maze based on the streets around the Fontaine Saint-Michel. Used to be, Architects were taught not to build using memories, or they might get lost in the dream and forget what was real. However, the person who said that was an idiot who didn’t know how to stay safe, so Steve’s always ignored that. Besides, his totem, a small, silver locket, has never failed him.

The second level is a bit trickier. He goes with another urban environment, this time by the docks, perfect for combat if it comes down to that. The third level will only add to it, should they need to use it; a series of never-ending underground hallways, claustrophobic and echoing.

When he looks up, it’s nearly dark outside and his hand is cramping something fierce. The only one still left is Sam, acting as back-up for Natasha while she goes about her spying. Bucky is gone.

“Get some rest, man,” Sam orders. “You’re starting to squint like you’ve got a migraine.”

That’s not too far off, actually, but Steve doesn’t like leaving the mazes undone. They’re rough draft right now, closer to spiderweb structures than anything resembling human residential areas. Sam stares balefully at him though, so he ends up going home (with his sketches in his bag, because Sam is not the boss of him).

The headache flares to life as he makes his way to the hotel, starting between his eyes and working its way up, spreading across his forehead and around to his ears. He’s barely drunk anything all day, nothing but the waters he’d gotten at the pizza place. Rookie mistake, and an embarrassing one at that.

He fumbles his keycard at the door, but once it finally slots in, the door thankfully opens at once. He shuffles into the apartment, ignoring that the lights are on. He already knows who it is, and sure enough; Bucky’s on the bed, naked and flipping through a book. He’s got a smirk ready, mouth opening to say something no doubt infuriating, when his eyes narrow. “You’re unwell.”

“’m not,” Steve protests.

Bucky rolls his eyes and points to the side table. “I got baguettes. Well. I got _bánh mì._ ”

Steve’s stomach growls, even as his headache spikes and he winces. Bucky notices. Steve lets him fuss. _Only_ because the alternative—throwing him out—is currently too strenuous to even contemplate. He forces down some painkillers, drinks a whole bottle of water under Bucky’s disapproving gaze, and they eat in near darkness. Even with the icicle pick stabs of pain behind his eyeballs, the meal goes down smoothly; Bucky got him shredded pork filling, just the way Steve likes it best.

After, they brush their teeth, and Bucky turns down the lights, then pats the space between his legs. Because Steve is tired and honestly a little needy right now—and _only_ because of that—he crawls between Bucky’s legs, slumping down to sit with his back against Bucky’s chest, shuddering a little as every movement of his head feels like rocks are tumbling around his skull. His head slips into the space between Bucky’s shoulder and neck, that bony cradle that fits him just right.

“It’s like you wanna get hurt,” Bucky grumbles at him, but still chases the pain away with his fingertips, massaging Steve’s forehead in smooth, rolling motions.

“I’ll make it up to you tomorrow.”

Bucky kisses his hair softly. “Don’t worry about it.”

“Buck—”

“Shh, sweetheart. It don’t matter. Just get well.”

Steve squeezes Bucky’s wrist, burrows in closer, presses a sloppy kiss to his throat. Bucky doesn’t _sound_ disappointed, which is really all that’s keeping Steve from a full-blown anxiety-driven fit. He drifts, so close to sleep, but unable to reach it. Something buzzes in his mind; a question. One that isn’t his to ask, even though it’s so, so tempting. He wonders if Natasha knows the answer, if Bucky ever shared it with her.

Such a simple question, but such astronomical value. _Is Bucky your real name?_

Steve bites it back, slurs, “I got you a Twix bar. When I went for food.”

A beat, fragile. “Thanks, baby. You’re too good to me.”

Steve’s heart squeezes. He must be coming down with something.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which Steve takes a leap, has doubts, and comes out on top

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey y'all  
> i'm really busy lately, but i managed to make time for this! it's mostly filler, leading up to some more action based in the next chapter which will be quite NSFW
> 
> is this chapter NSFW? not really? but maybe also a little? it's not explicit, mostly hinting, but now u know

When Steve wakes the next morning, Bucky is still sleeping soundly. It’s a rare enough occurrence that for a moment he’s tempted to fumble for his totem, just to check whether it’s real or not. It wouldn’t be the first time he’s dreamed of waking up like this, so, you know. Assurance first. You wouldn’t think Bucky would be the first one up; he’s not a morning person, hates mornings with the fire of a thousand suns, but he’s also really into being an annoying dick and waking Steve up just five minutes before his alarm is set to go off. Waking like this almost counts as a blessing.

Carefully tipping his head back and forth, testing for any lingering aches, Steve watches him nuzzle the pillow, finds it in him to look past the thin line of drool on his chin. Bucky’s hair is a nest of curls, wild and messy. The sheets have slipped low enough for the top of his butt to show, along with a couple of faint finger-shaped bruises that make Steve’s belly swoop. 

He looks very soft and cuddly. A little sweaty, too, but in a way that makes Steve want to make him even sweatier. Now, he could cozy up and wake Bucky up for sex, as he’d obviously come for last night. Or he could be the kind of bastard who wakes an innocently sleeping man from his sweet slumber by pouring ice water on him—oh, the sweet, sweet revenge it would be. Or…

Or he could up the stakes.

As soon as the thought emerges, nervous energy shoots through him, making his fingers twitch and his gut clench. He wriggles against the sheets, at once horribly nauseous and awfully excited, half-eager and half-ready to flee the country entirely. Sam would surely hunt him down and murder him though, so the former wins out.

He tiptoes from the bed, freezing at every sleep-noise Bucky makes. Now that the idea has settled, now that he’s carrying it out, Steve must remain undisturbed, or he won’t be able to go through with it. Pulling on yesterday’s clothes, he scribbles a note— _getting breakfast, be back soon;_ it’s only half a lie—and nicks Bucky’s keycard from his pants.

He meets no one on his way up. For a thief, Steve is really bad at seeming inconspicuous when he’s not actually doing anything wrong. Sure, he can flash fake passports at the airport without a flinching as long as it’s for a job, but the second he walks into the DMV with actually legal business at hand, he immediately worries that they’re going to call security on him. His Ma mocks him for it. Lovingly, but still.

In Bucky’s room, he heads straight for the closet. He sifts through the numerous shirts and pants, hurriedly looks through the underwear and socks and forces himself not to be distracted, even checks Bucky’s shoes—why does he have so many clothes with him? It’s like he’s planning to move in.

When Steve finally finds what he’s looking for (hidden in the sleeve of a coat), he almost can’t bring himself to grab it. Bucky, the tease, hasn’t just brought these things along; oh, no, he’s gotten them gift-wrapped and tagged, the whole nine yards, making it as obvious as possible just what it is. Or, well, obvious to Steve, at the least, who knows what’s hidden beneath the paper and string.

He unwraps it with trembling fingers. Anxiety and delight war inside him, climbing higher with each broken layer of wrapping, each as fragile as butterfly wings. At the first hint of blue and black, he nearly flings the entire package across the room, heart pounding faster. He hates this, hates the way his whole body shivers with anticipation. He’d rather that Bucky never knew this about him—fuck, he’d even prefer that he _himself_ didn’t know it. If only he’d never found out. He’d never need to think about it again then. And yet, he yearns for it.

There’s not just one item amongst the wrappings, but a number of delicate parts, because Bucky doesn’t know when to stop pushing. He also knows just what Steve wants even without being explicitly told. How does he come up with these things? Does he read Steve as easily as he reads computer code? One look, and all his secrets are laid bare, written on his skin. It’s too much. Maybe Steve shouldn’t, maybe he should just stuff this back in the closet and pretend he never went looking—

But he’s been gone for too long. Bucky might be awake already. Bucky might _guess._

He heads to the bathroom to change, the last dregs of want and courage still burning bright.

*

Back in Steve’s room, Bucky is indeed awake, though not quite up yet. When Steve returns, flushed from more than the jog to the bakery down the street, Bucky is fiddling with the compass that is Steve’s fake totem. It’s old-fashioned and clunky, peculiar enough that any dream-share worker worth their salt will clock it as a totem with just one look. Bucky knows it’s not the real thing.

Not that that’s ever stopped him from fixating on it.

“Didn’t Peggy get married?” he asks casually, snapping the compass shut and hiding the portrait within. If Steve didn’t know him as well as he does, he would almost be fooled by his tone.

“She did, yes.”

“You think it’s a good idea pining for a married woman, then?”

Steve grinds his teeth. Bucky’s never liked Peggy. Hell, the last time they’d been in a room together, on a job a million years ago, they’d nearly ended up killing choked everyone on the tension between them. Not that Bucky has ever been forthcoming about the reasons for his dislike, and Peggy is just as tight-lipped. “I never pined for her.”

“Sure, you didn’t,” Bucky acquiesces with a tight smile.

He slips off to the bathroom, leaving Steve fidgeting. He shouldn’t have gone to Bucky’s room, shouldn’t have gotten dressed in the—he should change. He should change right now. This was a bad idea all around, but he can still fix it, it’s just the wrong time for it, it’s fine, he can fix it.

He has only just pulled a new shirt on when Bucky reemerges, and the plan is shot to smithereens. Steve’s jerkiness doesn’t go unnoticed, especially not when the seams of his shirt audibly strain under his fervor to cover himself. Thank God he’d kept his jeans on.

Bucky flicks a suspicious glance at him, head cocked, some of his odd mood still lingering in the tight set of his mouth. He covers it well, though, folds it into a smirk that’ll get him punched for being insolent someday, and ambles up to Steve, completely at ease with being the only one naked.

“You bring me some sugar?” he coos, barely even pausing to glance at the buttery croissants and sweet eclairs that Steve has bought from the bakery. He puts his hands on Steve’s waist, roving downwards—

_Alert! Red alert! Abort mission!_

He can’t know; it’s not the right time, it’s not the right day, fuck, Steve shouldn’t have done this. His courage fails him in a bad way. “Not now,” he snaps, dances out of Bucky’s hold. God, it’s warm in here. They should open a window. He needs air. His palms are sweaty. Beneath his jeans, Bucky’s gifts seem to tighten around him.

Bucky isn’t so easily deterred, however. Steve’s prickliness has never once stopped him, only ever seemed to dare him to come closer. He catches Steve’s wrist, hands firm but gentle, and Steve can’t pull away, doesn’t truly want to. “You still unwell? I’ve got painkillers—”

“No.” Steve can’t look him in the eye. “No, I’m fine.” To distract him, Steve kisses him.

It starts hard, a kiss meant to erase all thoughts. But Steve’s so wound up, so aware of his own skin, that when Bucky gentles him with sure strokes of his tongue, he melts, settles into a long, deep give-and-take. Bucky tastes like toothpaste—Steve probably tastes a little like morning breath, despite the croissant he’d crammed down on the way back. What a prize.

One stray swipe of Bucky’s thumb on Steve’s hip and the jig is up.

Bucky’s eyes go wide. “ _Oh_.” Like he’d not truly believe that Steve would come through on this, despite the things he’d agreed to in bed the other night. But above the line of Steve’s jeans, the lacy edge of his new underwear peeks out, disproving that notion.

*

It’s been hours. Long, unfathomable hours. An _eternity_. Steve’s probably gotten gray hairs, it’s been that long. Also from the stress of being out in the open, but whenever he remembers that, he gets more stressed, and then he gets snippy, and Natasha has already given him one death glare today. Given that she’d only dropped in for a minute, that’s saying a lot about Steve’s mood.

Sam, being the best friend anyone could ask for, firmly ignores the weirdness and goes about his day like everything is perfectly normal. Of course his Architect is a high-strung bastard, he’s an _artist_. Nothing to see here, move along, people.

He does, however, give Bucky the hairy eyeball. Because Bucky is being quiet and studious, and that usually only happens when someone is about to die, so there’s reason to be wary.

But Bucky is only quiet because he knows what Steve is wearing beneath his jeans.

Hell, he picked it out. He probably has better knowledge of what it all looks like than Steve does, as he’d only managed a quick peek before covering it all up again. But Bucky hasn’t spoken, only glanced at Steve in between breaths, looking away just as fast. Steve is about to lose his mind from it all.

They hadn’t done anything back at the hotel this morning. Bucky had barely even touched him after he found out, too wide-eyed and flushed to keep his head on straight, stumbling around to get ready for the day. It had eased Steve’s nerves some but heightened his excitement. No longer just the object of Bucky’s desire or a slave to his own needs, but lovingly dressed in the lace Bucky had picked out just for him, in control of their little game, as confident as he’s ever been. 

It’s allowed him to get through the day without popping a boner every other minute. It’s enough just knowing that Bucky is unsettled, enough just feeling his gaze on his neck and the slip and slide of lace on his thighs. On the outside, he looks a little shabby, approachable for a big guy, scruffy and huggable at once. But under the jeans and cotton, he and Bucky both know just how carefully he’s dressed up.

Finally, the day is over. Steve is pretty sure he got some work done, but don’t ask him what it was. He lets Bucky leave first, then pretends to linger over his sketches—that’s actually a very neat maze, huh, he should probably pay more attention to that tomorrow—and practically sprints out of there when Sam taps his desk and orders him out.

Now, it can begin in truth.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which feelings make an unfortunate appearance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is pretty much 100% NSFW
> 
> i repeat
> 
> NSFW ahead!

Contrary to the evidence, Bucky does not actually have a specific kink. He likes being tied up, sure, and being bossed around, but he likes being the one doing the bossing around just as much and is more than happy to tie Steve down and ride him into the sunset. But that’s all cherries on top for him; what Bucky really wants, what Bucky really _needs_ , is this: attention.

Steve had discovered this the first time they came together. Despite what Bucky had thought, he hadn’t been a virgin in any sense of the word by then, but in hindsight, he can see why Bucky might’ve thought so. Steve may have had attitude to spare in the workroom, but in the face of Bucky’s want, he’d been… not fumbling, exactly. Tentative. Disbelieving that it was really happening, but so, so grateful for it. From the moment it began, he hadn’t been able to stop touching, hadn’t looked away for even a second, too enchanted by this beautiful boy who’d wanted him.

And Bucky? Bucky had melted into it. With every touch his sly smirk had faded a little more, until all that was left was a smile so soft and haunting that Steve sees it in his dreams to this day. Foolishly, Steve had thought it meant something.

And then Bucky had double-crossed them, and that notion was burned out of him.

And yet, they keep coming back to each other, time after time, job after job. Despite the hurt and the anger and the spite, they’ve never stopped wanting each other. Maybe it even sweetens it; Bucky at least seems to delight in the antagonism. And Steve… well. Steve never had any impulse control, did he?

Now, back in the hotel room, Bucky watches him intensely. The mirror has been moved, turned just right to show the bed and everything that will be happening there. For someone who suggested this so coyly just two days ago, Bucky seems almost anxious now, discomfited by the want in his eyes in a way that Steve rarely gets to see.

But then, talk is cheap. It makes us all foolhardy.

Steve can’t describe the way it makes him feel to wear the lingerie. Were he more fanciful, he’d say it feels like reclaiming a part of himself that he never knew he’d lost until suddenly, there it was again. Bucky’s desire sweetens it, but it’s not the crux of it. It settles something in him. Makes it a little easier to just _be_. More than anything, it feels good. And he wants Bucky to feel as good as he does.

“Help me undress?” Steve murmurs.

Bucky tries to hide his nerves to little effect. They show in his unusually clumsy fingers, in the flush of his cheeks—not just aroused, but overwhelmed—and the way he keeps glancing up for approval. Like this, Steve can’t help but be sweet to him, can’t stop the soft kisses he presses to his lips or the gentle way he cradles his jaw.

Steve’s plaid parts over his chest, slides off his shoulders. Bucky draws a sharp breath when he pulls tentatively at Steve’s jeans, that hint of blue lace so stark against Steve’s pale skin. It seems incongruous that Bucky should be the most nervous; Steve’s the one in lingerie, for God’s sake, he had to be dragged here with his mind kicking and screaming and denying that he wanted it.

But it’s just the way it is.

When Bucky stalls, Steve moves back, slipping out of his grasp. Facing the mirror with Bucky behind him, he holds his gaze in the reflection as he unbuttons and unzips. He doesn’t make a show of it, doesn’t slow it down, but he doesn’t rush it either.

The panties are navy and lacy. They appear in the v of his zipper, reveal themselves fully as he pushes down his jeans. The cut of them is a little cheeky, not a thong, but not exactly hipsters either; Bucky’s jaw drops when he sees how much they highlight the perkiness of Steve’s ass. Steve doesn’t know where Bucky has found them, but he’d greatly appreciate finding out, because by God, they’re the prettiest, most comfortable pair he’s ever worn.

The front is roomy and has a neatly hidden vertical slit that is specifically intended for horny penis-having people to be able to keep them on during sex. They also have detachable suspender straps for stockings, which Bucky so generously supplied, probably not expecting Steve to actually go through with it. Or rather; _definitely_ not expecting Steve to go through with it based on how wide his eyes go when Steve’s jeans lower over the suspenders and the top of the silky nylons follow.

Naked but for the lingerie, Steve turns. Standing tall with his wide shoulders, beefy arms, and thick waist and thighs, society would have that he looks comical in his delicate lingerie, but he doesn’t. Instead, it highlights the strength of his body and makes it unthreatening. Bucky’s eyes can’t settle, bounces between the stubble on Steve’s cheeks to the faint scratch marks on his pecs that Bucky has left himself, to the way the panty slit is starting to part a little around Steve’s hardening cock, to the skintight embrace of the thigh-high stockings.

“Where’d you get these?” Steve asks, reaching for him.

Bucky approaches warily, trying to keep his eagerness at bay. Poor thing doesn’t know his desire can be observed from space at this point. Steve pulls him in and presses their chests together, one clothed, one naked.

“London,” Bucky finally says, voice scratchy and shy. “Was visiting a friend in Kensington, he pointed out the store—”

“A friend?”

“Friend, yes, _just_ a friend, Stevie,” Bucky swears. Pleads. “Just a friend.”

Pushing away the wave of relief that promise produces, Steve nuzzles at Bucky’s throat, hides his face by kissing him. “What do you want?”

Bucky’s breath stutters. “This ain’t about me, Stevie—”

“I’m _making_ it about you. You made me feel so good, Buck, lemme do that for you, too?” A beat, rife with possibility. “Tell me, baby? Please?”

Bucky’s hands spasm on Steve’s hips, the only place he’d had the courage to place them. “Come to bed? Lemme touch you, touch me—hold me?”

“Of course, sweetheart. First—get naked?”

Bucky complies. Stumbles around a bit because he can’t look away from Steve spread out against the sheets, watching Bucky just as keenly in return. The morning’s revelation had left Bucky distracted, so he’s just in a basic t-shirt and jeans, barely enough to keep everyone from noticing their little game. Both are tight enough to count as painted on.

Naked now, Bucky crawls up the bed, face open and soft. When Steve opens his arms, he dives right in, arches into the embrace like he’s been starved for touch for years. It starts slow, almost innocently. Just cuddling and sweet caresses, kisses scattered on Bucky’s hair and temples, slowly moving towards his mouth.

The urgency builds like fire, hot and lazy until suddenly, it’s all-consuming. Steve can’t stop touching Bucky, can’t keep from running his hands all over him, tracing the slope of his back, the plump curve of his cheeks, the coiled strength of his arms. Bucky is making noises already, soft, little moans into every kiss, and his pupils are so wide and dark they’ve nearly swallowed up the beautiful gray of his irises.

He grows bolder under Steve’s careful ministrations, reaches for the suspender straps and picks at them, snapping them against Steve’s thighs. Steve wants his hands on him, is panting for it, would be ashamed of it if his brain was still firing on all cylinders. Good thing it’s not.

They end up at the foot of the bed. If they aren’t looking at each other or lost in the feeling, they’re looking in the mirror, observing the way they come together. It’s vain, perhaps, and definitely strange, but Steve likes seeing himself like this, likes his body all the more when it is with Bucky’s.

He licks his way from Bucky’s mouth and down his chest, sucks his nipples until Bucky’s back bows off the bed, then moves down to where he’s aching the most. He starts with teasing kisses, then long, wet licks, then sucks at the head of Bucky’s cock while Bucky writes and whines and pulls his hair like Steve is the only thing keeping him earthbound.

When he finally takes him in his mouth, Bucky keens and spreads his legs. So gorgeous, so _easy_ , and he’s letting Steve wreck him like this, letting Steve see just how much he wants it, how much he wants _him._ Steve reaches down, gives himself a quick tug; his cock’s proudly jutting out of the panty slit, wet at the tip.

He pulls his mouth free. “Turn over, baby,” he begs. “Lemme get you ready. You want my mouth? My fingers?”

“ _Yes_.”

“Yes to what, Buck? Baby, tell me, you gotta tell me, wanna make you feel—”

“Yes _all_ , Stevie, please—”

Bucky ends up on his knees, ass in the air, flushed face half-hidden in his arms. With the mirror there, Steve can see everything, the ripple of muscle in his back and thighs, the clench of his hands in the sheets.

Bending over, he gets to work. He takes his time, parts Bucky’s cheeks and presses right in, barely cognizant of having to breathe. Under his mouth and tongue Bucky opens up, allowing Steve into his body. A glance up at the mirror; Steve, bent down and dressed up all pretty, and Bucky bent over and wanting.

There’s lube under the pillow; condoms, too. Steve pulls away only to reach for them, slips the condom on first then slicks up his fingers and adds them to his careful explorations. Bucky shivers at one, moans shakily at two, and at three he fucks back, starts begging using only Steve’s name. Steve crooks his fingers, delights in the punched-out groan it produces.

“You ready for me, sweetheart?”

“Please— _oh_!”

Steve’s already pushing in. Bucky tenses, relaxes, holds still, pushes back. He’d been like this the first time, too. Steve can’t bear it, has to cover Bucky with his body and bite his neck and stutter against him; Bucky’s only just steady enough to hold them both up.

He loves on Bucky like this for a bit, shallow thrusts and bodies close. Then, he gets up on his knees, grabs Bucky’s waist and goes harder, eyes on the picture they make in the mirror. Bucky’s looking, too; that, more than the feeling of him, is making Steve lose himself.

But it’s not enough, not quite what Steve is after. So he pulls Bucky back against his chest, gets him upright, turns his face and kisses him and kisses him and kisses him. Finally, it looks just like he’s dreamed; Steve, big and broad and plastered against Bucky’s only slightly smaller frame. At this angle, he can see his own panty-clad hips pressing into Bucky’s ass, can admire the way their thighs line up, the silky stockings sliding smoothly between them, the suspender straps tensing with every movement.

It ends like that, with slow, steady thrusts. Steve has one arm around Bucky’s chest to keep him close, the other at his waist to hold him still when he needs to. Bucky’s got one hand around Steve’s curved around the back of Steve’s neck, the other firm on his thigh.

They could be looking in the mirror, but they’re not. They’re looking at each other, panting kisses being shared, barely articulated words disappearing into moans. Steve gets a hand around him, quick and desperate.

“I’m close,” Bucky manages to say. “You first, Stevie, you first—”

“Together, Bucky, we’ll come together—”

“Stevie, baby, please, I-I l—"

Whatever he is about to say is drowned out by their release. In the midst of it all, they press so close, as if terrified that they’ll be ripped from one another when it’s over. The look on Bucky’s face is one of agonized pleasure, as if he’s reaching for Steve’s very soul with every inch of his being. Steve holds him tighter, leaving bruises they won’t notice until tomorrow.

After they’ve collapsed and disengaged, wiped off and disposed of the condom, they crawl right back into each other’s arms. Bucky is shaking, wild with sensory overload, but still can’t get close enough. Steve, likewise, needs him in his arms, needs his scent in his nose and his taste in his mouth.

“What did you want to say?” Steve asks, his brain strangely lingering on that last barely born word of Bucky’s.

Bucky tenses. Which makes Steve tense. And for a minute or so, they both lie there, twined together, still as death.

“Hold me?” Bucky finally begs. “We’ll talk in the morning.”

How could Steve ever deny him?

How could Steve ever deny _them_?

Oh.

Oh, oh, _oh_.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which Steve avoids the problem

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just a short one this time! the end is coming up soon, i'm guessing maybe another 3-4 chapters?

They don’t talk the next morning. Or the next afternoon, or the next evening, or at all. Work picks up and they throw themselves into it. Selfishly, Steve is glad of it; that conversation could only had led to worse things. Why ruin what they have? More than Steve already has by catching feelings, that is.

God, he should’ve seen it.

What kind of idiot falls in love with his arch nemesis? _Who_? Show Steve someone like him, and he’ll happily form a DA club—Dumbasses Anonymous. They’ll meet on Tuesdays. There will be rotating schedule for bringing snacks. It will be awful, and no one will like coming in, but they will persevere, because the only other option is crying into giant tubs of ice cream while marathoning _The Mask of Zorro_ and _The Mummy_.

As Bucky busies himself being perfect on the other side of the room, Steve works at his mazes like a man possessed. Does he look like he hasn’t slept for a while? Yes. Why? Because since that night, Bucky hasn’t been in his bed and apparently, Steve’s body has decided that it absolutely cannot relax without Bucky next to him. Never mind that they don’t usually spend every night together when they’re working outside of sex or that Steve has never had this problem before.

In fact, he has been enumerated with a bunch of problems that were never an issue before. Like suddenly remembering that it was Bucky’s birthday a few months ago and Steve didn’t get him anything (they’d even been in the same city then; Bucky always goes home for festivities and holidays). The guilt is eating him alive. Also; when did he learn such things about Bucky? He can’t remember. But he’s come to the horrifying realization that he might actually know _everything_ about Bucky _except_ his name.

Come to think of it, Bucky absolutely knows every single thing about Steve except the name and identity he lives under when he’s not working. Steven Grant Rogers _is_ his name, the name his ma gave him. But it’s not like Sarah broadcasted that to the world, and both she and Steve live under pseudonyms that they use for official paperwork. And voting; mustn’t forget that. According to every register on earth, Steve Rogers doesn’t exist. Stiofán O’Doirnáin on the other hand…

But they know everything else about each other. Steve knows that Bucky grew up in Park Slope, and Bucky knows Steve grew up in Red Hook. Bucky was a straight-A student, Steve was a troublemaker with a capital T. They both like baseball. Bucky’s got three sisters, Steve’s an only child. Bucky has a sweet tooth and will eat anything, but Steve is culinarily stubborn and prefers things he knows. They’ve both cried to Disney films and have considered breaking into NASA just to play around with the telescopes and look at the stars all night.

Safe to say, the revelation has shaken Steve, has made him reevaluate everything. At first, he’d denied it. Bucky is annoying. Bucky has betrayed him. Bucky is firmly set on making Steve’s life hell. Except, only one of those is actually an issue.

“Sam,” he says now, whispering to avoid Bucky noticing. “I need to talk to you.”

“Yes, you do,” Sam replies, already leading Steve out. They find a quiet room a few doors down, close the door. Sam’s got his arms cross, face set in serious folds. “Okay, hit me.”

“Do you remember when Bucky betrayed me?”

Sam blinks. After a moment, he repeats, very slowly, “You wanna talk about when Bucky betrayed you.”

Steve squints at him. “Yes?”

“On the New Jersey job.”

“Yes, that’s—why, what did you think I wanted to talk to you about?”

“Oh, I don’t know, Steve, how about…” Sam counts them off on his fingers, staring Steve down all the while. “Why you’re snapping at everyone lately? Why you’re specifically picking fights with Bucky even when he’s minding his own business _for once in his entire career_ , why you’re zoning out, why you look like you haven’t slept for days—”

“Okay, okay,” Steve stops him, wincing. “All of those are valid, but that’s not important right now—” 

“Not important right now? We’re bringing Batroc in tomorrow!”

“I thought we were gonna do that Weds—oh, it’s Tuesday today. Right.”

“ _STEVE_.”

“Sam, please, just hear me out!”

Sam sighs. “Fine. Yes, I remember when Bucky betrayed you. Broke your trust in all humanity, yadda, yadda.”

“ _Sam_!”

“Oh, come on, Steve. I know double-timing a job ain’t cool, I know you had to make a run for it because of it, but this is Dream-share. We’ve _all_ done that on a job where shit just kept going south. Hell, you’ve done that, on the Raleigh job—”

“That’s because the Raleigh job was a shitshow from start to end,” Steve cuts in. “And I didn’t do it to _Bucky_.”

“What does that matter—wait.” Sam jerks back, eyes wide. “Steve. Tell me you didn’t.”

Steve knows very well what Sam means, but he plays dumb anyway. “Didn’t what?”

“Tell me you didn’t fall in love with him. Oh, God, you did. _Steve_. You _idiot_. All these years?”

“ _No_.” A beat. “Not then. Or, maybe—I just… slept with him. And then kept sleeping with him. And then I realized…”

“You only just realized? After _ten. Years?_ ” When Steve only shrugs, Sam groans. “How can someone so detail oriented be so fucking oblivious?”

“Let’s not delve into that, the point is… fuck, I don’t know what the point is. What if I can’t forgive him—don’t interrupt me, Samuel—I mean it. And what if I do forgive him and it doesn’t matter, ‘cause he’s not in love with me. Fuck, I’ve always known he wasn’t. I’m just… I’m just a distraction, you know? I can’t do that anymore, it’s not right to use him like that, but what else have I got? It’s not like he’s going to turn around as say, ‘hey, Stevie, that’s a mighty fine emotion you’ve got there, funny you should say that, I think you’re really swell, too!’”

“First of, that’s the worst impression I’ve ever seen. Second of, how do you know?”

“Know what?”

“That he doesn’t feel the same? You’re not the only one who’s been in the same weird… relationship whatever for ten years.”

The conversation devolves from there. Once Sam has got a notion in his head, he doesn’t easily let it go. It’s one of the things they’ve got in common, and most days, Steve appreciates Sam’s tenacity, but today really isn’t one of them. Bucky isn’t in love with him, no matter how fixated Sam is on that idea. That’d be just too convenient, and Steve’s life doesn’t do convenient.

Besides, if Bucky was in love with him, why the hell would he have put up with Steve’s animosity all these years? Why would he have consented to be treated like Steve has treated him—disposable, convenient, more than slightly annoying. Bucky might have started this whole mess way back when, but Steve’s not exactly been kind either. They both know exactly how to rile each other up, which sore spot to swing a metaphorical bat at.

“Talk to Bucky,” Sam finally says, beyond fed up with the argument—and Steve’s continued whining about the betrayal that he isn’t quite ready to let go of yet. It’s all that stands between him and the abyss, and no, that’s not an exaggeration.

“ _You_ talk to Bucky—no, wait, don’t do that.”

When they walk back in, Bucky looks up, eyes lingering only briefly on Steve. He licks his lip in that thoughtful way that’s always distracted Steve to high heaven, then dismisses them easily, turning back to the file he’s pouring over. Steve, who’d been heading cautiously for Bucky, immediately turns for his own desk while Sam glares holes into his back.

It’s not the right time, is all. It might never be the right time. But he’s got to at some point, and Steve’s not a quitter. Overly fond of avoiding the problem, yes, but once shit hits the fan, he doesn’t back down. He has to end this. When the job’s done, so are they.

It’s the only way.

Right?

He sneaks a glance at Bucky as they finish up. Bucky’s desk is close to the windows, and he’s slouched in his chair, lounging in the sunshine pouring in. It haloes him, paints him in gold. If Steve wasn’t already hopelessly, stupidly in love with him, that sight might do it.

And right then, he starts praying that Sam is right.

Maybe this doesn’t have to be the end.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which things go a little bit right, and a whole lot wrong

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm alive!
> 
> vocab for this chapter:  
> projections: the non-real people the dreamer populates the dream with.

It’s much preferable to do an extraction outside the mark’s home, but this time, Batroc’s apartment is their only option. Batroc is a paranoid man; he never spends much time in public if he can avoid it, not even on public transport, and he’s got no doctor’s or dentist’s appointments coming up that they can use as a cover. They also can’t risk pulling in a spotter to kick them out of the dream if everything goes to shit due to the nature of the job. Steve really hopes they’re getting hazard pay.

On the bright side, Natasha’s surveillance showed that Batroc liked taking naps right underneath a heating vent, so all they have to do is have Bucky sneak in and add a little airborne sedative to the vents and presto! Batroc’s out cold.

They set up quickly. 

The apartment is on the smallish side. It won’t be easy for them all to lie down comfortably, but they’ll make do. The odd overlap of limbs won’t be too bad. The dust bunnies under the sofa, however, are intimidating enough that Steve worries his asthma might make a horrible return. Don’t international assassins vacuum?

Bucky’s fiddling with the PASIV, monitoring the sleeping Batroc. They’ve administered the first mix of drugs—one to cancel out the airborne sedative, another to knock him out for the whole procedure—and are now just waiting for it to set in. The Somnacin is at the ready, the needles prepped. Just hurry up and wait a while longer. 

Steve can’t help but stare at him, hovering at his side (he’d like to call it helping, but going by Bucky’s narrow-eyed squint, he’s hindering more than helping). Bucky looks particularly dashing today, if a little ridiculous, but what’s new there. He’s in a simple, black turtleneck sweater, not really eye-catching, but elegant and beautiful. His dark jeans appear painted on (he claims they’re comfortable, but Steve honestly has his doubts), there are leather gloves sticking out of his back pocket, and his curls are windswept. All he needs is a black cap, maybe a domino mask, and the French cat burglar look will be complete.

When Steve fails to keep out of the way for the third time in as many minutes, Bucky cocks a brow at him and tilts his head back daringly. It’s not a come-hither—or, well, it is, but that’s because Steve and Bucky have only ever flirted through daring each other to get in the other’s face—but it is breathtaking, nonetheless. “Can I help you, Rogers?”

As Steve’s first instinct is asking Bucky to move in with him— _really_ not the time or the place or even particularly smart at this point—he falls all over himself to grab an alcohol swab instead. “Here, let me?” If his voice cracks, that’s no one’s business but his own.

He rolls up Bucky’s sleeve carefully, dabbing gently at the skin of his wrist. There’s still a little bruising from where Steve tied him down, just a hint of bluish-green, barely discernable, almost like a shadow. Steve is extra gentle with him.

If anything, Bucky looks more confused now, head tilted quizzically. Steve tries to smile at him, but it comes as more of a nervous grimace. It’s _weird_ being openly nice to Bucky. _Good_. But really weird. The open suspicion that Bucky regards this behavior with isn’t exactly unwanted. But hell, Steve has got to start somewhere.

Incredibly, Bucky seems to get it. His face smooths, a smirk pulls up his mouth.

It then becomes very clear that he’s _not_ getting it, because he says, “ _Oh_ , I see. Odd timing, Stevie, but okay,” and pulls Steve out of the living room, a wicked glint in his eyes.

“Uh, Bucky—”

Steve doesn’t get to complete that sentence, because the next moment, Bucky’s got him up against the wall in another room, the door barely shut behind them, and he’s going down on his knees. Steve’s an old hand at pretending that Bucky touching him is more a bother than a joy, but the defenses he used to have against him have faltered, crushed in the wake of his realization; instead of feigned indifference, his eyes bug out of his head, especially when Bucky’s hands run up his inner thighs.

His last functional braincell saves the day. “Buck, wait, _stop_.”

Bucky blinks up at him. “You wanna do it the other way around?”

“No—come on, get up. This isn’t what I want.”

On his feet now, Bucky steps back, expression guarded. There’s a distinct _explain yourself_ air to the way he holds his shoulders, almost but not quite defensive, and he’s carefully balanced on the balls of his feet, restless.

Steve is at a loss. How do you go about asking someone to make a life with you when you’re not completely sure that they even enjoy your company outside of sex? The signs are there, but… But. “I just wanted to be nice,” he ends up with, mumbling pathetically.

“I know,” Bucky says, a frown in his voice. “That’s why I pulled you in here.”

“I didn’t do it to have sex with you, Bucky.”

Bucky blinks. “I don’t understand. Like, you mean you were trying to be nice just to be nice?”

“Yeah—”

“Bullshit.” Should Steve be offended at that tone? Probably. But he also deserves it, so. “You’re not nice.”

“I could be nice!”

“Not to _me_.”

“Well, I’m _gonna_ be.”

Bucky stares. Then, “Is this—are you trying to let me down easy or something?”

Steve gapes. “ _No!_ What—why would you even think that? I’m not—”

“That’s the only thing that makes sense!” Bucky argues, something like panic around his eyes. “Shut up, Steve, I’m talking now: you’re never nice to me unless you want a fuck. But you don’t want me to suck you? That’s like—oh. Do you want this—” he gestures between the two of them “—to stop? Fuck, Rogers, you coulda just told me—”

“ _NO_!” Nat and Sam definitely heard that. “ _I’m just trying to be nice_!”

“ _That’s not what we do_!”

“Well, I want it to be!”

“But _why_?”

“Because I like you, you stubborn jerk!” Bucky’s jaw drops. Steve knows he should stop, but the words keep coming. “You’re the best thing that ever happened to me, and god fucking damn it, I don’t wanna deny that anymore!”

Silence.

A knock on the door. “We’re ready to start,” Sam says. “If that’s, ya know… still relevant to y’all.”

“We’re coming, Sam. Give us a minute?” Steve calls back. In the face of Bucky’s utter disbelief, his courage is hastily shrinking. If he doesn’t speak now, he fears he never will. “Look. I’m sorry I’ve been an ass for the past… fuck, decade? Shit, I can see why you’re looking at me like that, but… it blindsided me, too, Buck, but you gotta believe me, I wouldn’t just say this, I really do care about you, and I wanna be nice because I wanna make you happy, but if that’s not what you want, I’m sorry, I’ll back off—”

Bucky silences him, just a touch of his fingers to Steve’s lips. “Don’t. Don’t finish that sentence.”

God, that hurts. Steve nods, eyes squeezed tightly shut against the oncoming tears. “I’m sorry.”

“ _Don’t_ be.” Bucky’s voice is shaking. “And don’t cry. Christ, Stevie, I’m not rejecting you, okay?”

_Hope_. “You’re not?”

“ _No_. I’d never—look. We’ve got work to do. But when this is all over, we _are_ gonna sit down and talk like civilized people, got it? When it’s over, only then. Don’t tell me these things like you’re giving me my last rites. This is _not_ the end. Alright?”

“Alright.”

God, has there ever been anymore more beautiful? Bucky with his clenched jaw, the wet sheen in his eyes, the euphoric flush in his cheeks? He’s staring Steve down as if daring him to disagree, daring him to take back his words and undo the progress they just made. Steve’s very heart is trembling, his breaths choppy, his head full of cotton.

Sam loudly clears his throat on the other side of the door. They really have to go.

Steve kisses Bucky’s fingertips. Bucky looks pained, swaying towards him, then backs up. “ _After_ ,” he promises.

They rejoin Sam, Natasha, and Batroc’s unconscious body in the living room. Sam keeps his face carefully neutral, not even looking at Steve, but Nat emanates smugness without moving a single muscle. Bucky has donned his devil-may-care persona, lying down on the floor like he and Steve haven’t just redefined their relationship. (He does bully his way to Steve’s side though, and swabs Steve’s wrists, and hands him the needle, touch gentle and fierce, and Steve is in love, he’s so in love, everything is going to be okay).

Sam presses the plunger and the Somnacin takes hold. The dream claims them.

You can never quite predict where you emerge in a dream. It’s rare to wake up in the same place as the others, so Steve isn’t overly worried when he finds himself alone next to a fountain, surrounded by projections. The way they immediately lock on to him, however…

Well, let’s just say it all goes to hell for a while.

*

When he finally finds the others, he’s more than a little battered and more than a little pissed. He had to dream up a bigger gun two blocks ago, and given how little Steve likes guns, that’s saying a lot about their current situation. They knew Batroc had had his subconscious militarized, knew it would be tough to pull off this job, but this? This is insane. The projections shouldn’t have been able to react this fast, the dream shouldn’t have gone sideways this quickly. They planned for this, put in safeguards against this, and now the dream is breaking up, the projections are bloodthirsty, and they’ve already wasted too much time.

One bright spot is that Sam, Natasha, and Bucky have already captured Batroc. He’s tied to a chair in the middle of an otherwise empty room, head lolling; someone knocked him out to bring him here. The building they’re in is easily defensible; it’ll buy them some time to make heads and tails of this mess.

“Something’s wrong,” Sam says as soon as he spots Steve.

“No, really?”

“Shut up, Rogers, I don’t mean just the dream—he didn’t fight that hard when we found him. It was too easy.”

“We need to go down a level,” Bucky yells, prepping the PASIV. “This one is too unstable to be of much use—”

Batroc stirs. No one’s bothered to blindfold him; he won’t remember them when he wakes up, their Somnacin mix makes sure of that, and in the dream, they’ve got other worries. Those knots will hold, they’re safe from him.

Or so they think, until he opens his mouth. “ _Bonjour, monsieur Barnes_.”

And it all goes to hell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the world is really shit right now, y'all stay safe, keep fighting, stay strong


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which the team deal with the complications, and Bucky tells a secret

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the end is nigh! i'm guesstimating about two more chapters, maybe only one, let's see where the muses take me.

Bucky freezes. That alone tells Steve how serious those words are—how important that _name_. Bucky stumbles backwards, eyes wide, too startled to even reach for his totem, the blank dog tags around his neck. Steve’s admired those tags before, even touched them. He could sketch them in the dark if he had to, but only as they are in the real world; in dreams, they have writing on them. Steve isn’t supposed to know that.

Batroc watches Bucky closely, perfectly at ease despite the situation. Why wouldn’t he be? Bucky is scared, Steve is shaken, Nat and Sam both too far from him to act quickly. Bucky doesn’t use his real name. By the look on Natasha’s face, not even she had known it. _No one_ knows his name.

But Batroc does.

He looks around, takes stock of each of them. “Rogers,” he greets, almost casually. “Wilson. Romanov. Barnes. Monsieur Ja—”

Steve lunges. He doesn’t think it through; all that matters is getting Batroc to shut up. That’s Bucky’s name, Bucky’s secret, and Batroc _can’t have it_ , doesn’t get to _speak_ _it_. Steve hits him across the face, snapping his head back. It’s a bad hit, borne by desperation, not calculation. It just makes Batroc grin, even as he bleeds. “Jame—”

Steve hits him again.

“Steve! Steve, don’t—we can’t risk kicking him awake. _Steve_!”

When they manage to pull him away, Batroc is bloody, his face broken. He can’t die in a dream, not really, but dream-death, the kick, can wake him up. They can’t afford that, but Steve is so angry, so vicious; he struggles to get past the others and back to his bloody business.

They’re all saying his name, trying to calm him.

“Stevie, for me,” Bucky finally says, voice close to his ear. “You have to stop.”

And Steve stops.

Natasha moves in, syringe at the ready, and sedates Batroc, puts him under. She’s arranged her face into concentrated, unbothered placidity, a mask so well done you’d have never thought she’d been rattled to her core just a second ago.

This is why Steve is no good as an Extractor. Extractors can’t let emotion get the best of him, not like this. Fuck, he may have blown it for all of them.

But Bucky is back on his feet, every inch the Point Man. “We keep going,” he says, darting towards the window and peering out at the riotous crowd. They’re getting closer. “Steve, you built mazes into this building, right?”

Steve shakes his head, though not in denial, just to come back to himself. “Yeah, of course.”

“Three of us go down, one of us stays up here, keep the dream stable. Steve, do your thing—that new dream-scape you told me about.”

“What? No, _fuck_ , Bucky, that’s not meant to be used like this, it’s too unstable. We’ve no idea how he might react—”

“You sayin’ you can’t do it, Rogers?”

Steve grinds his teeth. “I can do it.”

“Sounds like you can’t.”

Oh, fuck that. Fuck him. God, he always knows exactly which button to press, which dare to issue to get the result he wants, doesn’t he? Never mind that the kind of dream Bucky is asking him to improvise is a mess and a half to build even in much better circumstances. A dream that’s constructed, but which seems naturally grown. Seems _real_. In other words; as chaotic and illogical as a normal dream. Here there be dragons—potentially very literally.

It’s not that Steve can’t do it. He has done so before, was the _first_ to steal from a dream like that. But he’d had oodles of time then, and Tony’s cooperation. While he’s done it on jobs before, it’s usually a Hail Mary, something to keep the dream stable just a little while longer, just enough to allow them to get out safe.

This isn’t the emergency blueprint Steve had drawn up, but fuck it.

“Sam, Nat, with me,” he says.

“What—fuck, no, Steve, _I’m_ going with you,” Bucky argues.

“No, you’re not.”

“I think you’ll find that I am.”

“Buck—”

“Steve—”

“So, are we just not going to get a vote on this?” Sam says, arms crossed. At his side, Nat looks just as unimpressed. “Bucky, no offense man, but have you ever worked in this kind of dream before? No? Well, I have. You’re staying up here.”

“Don’t argue,” Nat warns even as Bucky opens his mouth to do just that. “You know he’s right. Steve is needed to build the dream, I can still forge Rumlow and keep Batroc busy, and Sam’s the Extractor and the more experience with this sort of thing out of the two of you. You _know_ this is the best course of action.”

Bucky looks to Steve. Steve steels himself.

Bucky throws his hands up. He never was one to lose gracefully, especially not with stakes this high. He doesn’t protest it any more though, just gets ready for the mob, pulling weapons out of drawers than Steve had built for just this purpose.

“Steve, you ready?” Sam calls.

“Gimme a sec?”

He can’t leave Bucky without at least a reassurance that he’s going to be okay. As uncommon as it is in Point Men, Bucky doesn’t like violence. Oh, he can inflict it. Is damn good at it, in fact, having both the skill and guts to do the kind of things that would leave you lying awake at night in the real world. He just prefers not to.

And now Steve is making him do it.

“Buck—”

“Not now.”

“Please—”

“Look,” Bucky hisses. He’s found a gun, a big-ass rifle with more bullets that would be possible up in the world. Dream-guns and dream-bullets: hurts like the real deal, shoots like a dream. “Get this through your head, Rogers: I’m not your damsel. If we’re gonna do this thing, you’re gonna have to shelve that notion right here.”

“Bucky, that’s not—”

“Yes, it is. Don’t try me, Stevie. I know it, and you know it.”

Fuck. _Fuck_. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”

“Good. You should be. We’re gonna talk about this later, okay?”

“Our _later_ is getting real booked, huh.” Don’t let this be a warning sign. _Please, God, no._

“It is. Now get your ass over there and let me put you to sleep. Tick-tock.”

Steve joins Nat and Sam already seated around the PASIV. Steve seats himself across from Batroc, wanting to be able to wake up and rush him directly, should the need arise. Nat and Sam are already plugged in, just waiting for him.

There’s no need to clean his skin, no need to be exact with the needle. Down here in the dream, the act of using the PASIV to go down another level is really just a way to trick the mind. They cannot, technically, use the PASIV or re-administer Somnacin, but as long as it _appears_ like it in the dream, they trick the brain into accepting it as reality.

Bucky gets him settled quickly, eyes on Steve’s wrist.

As the drug ‘takes effect’, as Steve’s eyes close, as his desperate plans for the next level start to solidify behind his eyelids, Bucky leans in and whispers, “My name… is James Buchanan Barnes.”

Oh.

_Oh_.

That _bastard_.

*

There’s no time to dwell on that, much as Steve wants to.

They emerge into dark dream space, surrounded by shapeless shadows. Steve _pulls_ , for lack of better word, and molds the dream into something strange. There’s no real way to describe what they find there: like most dreams, the structures are ephemeral, ever mutating even as you look at them, first one thing, then another.

Natasha worms her way into between the people now emerging from the gloom, red hair swaying as she walks. One moment, she’s there, the next, she’s gone, and Rumlow looks back, giving a nod.

“You got a treasure map for this place, by any chance?” Sam asks, not sounding like he has any real hope of getting good news.

“Try not to get stuck anywhere,” Steve tells him. “I’ll keep it steady for as long as I can.”

“From anyone else, I wouldn’t take that as assurance. But it’s you, and Steve, you’re one of the best damn Architects in the business, and we will get through this.” He claps Steve on the shoulder. “See you on the other side?”

“Go.”

He disappears.

Have you ever had a lucid dream that you were only half-aware of? The kind of dream where you’re sort of aware that if you just put your mind to it, you can change the whole course of the dream, can build castles out of sand, or play a violin that hasn’t taken physical shape but still makes a sound simply because you imagine the melody, or maybe even turn a nightmare into a sweet, cuddly puppy?

That’s what controlling a dream like this is like.

It’s working _with_ Batroc’s subconscious instead of against it, directing the flow of non-sensical dream-matter but not outright controlling it. It’s not real building, not real planning. It’s holding the reins of a wild horse and praying to God it won’t notice.

Steve strains against the flow. As the anchor point, if he slips, they’re fucked. Nat and Sam are more aware of themselves, less bound by the illogical logic of the dream. Steve can’t do anything but keep it steady, just has to wait until Sam comes back or the timer on the PASIV kicks them out.

Natasha leads the charge. Down here, she balances between the immaculate Rumlow-forge and Batroc’s idea of Rumlow. Who knows, maybe she is prancing around in a pink tutu right now, still wearing Rumlow’s face. Batroc doesn’t like him much and imagining his superior in a way Rumlow (or at least Batroc) would find denigrating could be his way of letting off steam. She’ll spin the yarn that Sam will follow.

Meanwhile, Sam’s on what could generously be termed a wild goose chase, following the path that Natasha painstakingly talks Batroc into revealing bit by bit. It’s an extraction in the purest sense of the word, involves stealing ‘documents’ out of a ‘chest’ somewhere in the middle of raw dream space. The brain is nothing if not fond of patterns and metaphor, and most people enjoy the idea of hidden treasure. Sam might have to literally dig it out. 

It’s an eternity. It’s endless. It’s Steve’s entire being. Buildings rise and fall around him, impossible animals pass him by, faceless people emerge and die, and nothing stays the same, nothing changes. The dream winds tighter, time goes faster. How long has it been, in the world up above? Minutes? An hour? How close are they to failing? _Hold on tight, don’t let go. Bucky’s counting on you._ Everybody _is counting on you._

And finally, _finally_ , Sam and Nat appear, and Sam says, “We got it.”

With a ferocious smile, Natasha kicks them awake.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which they run

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my beta warned me that i might have a little too much to resolve for me to stick to the 'just one more chapter after this' plan, so the count may go up, we'll see

“Did you get it?” is the first thing Bucky asks when the locate him. He’s sweaty and messy, his hair wild and his face dusted with gunpowder. But he’s alive, and they did it, and Batroc sleeps still, blissfully kept under by the sedatives. They’re not going to kick him awake; he’ll wake up on his own in his apartment, not having any recollection of the dream.

That he knew their names and faces was alarming though, and they’ll be running the second they get out. Steve’s already mapping a route out of Paris, one that’ll take him and Bucky home as quickly and safely as possible.

“We go it,” Sam assures him. “Time to wake up.”

*

Up above, in the waking world, Bucky asks, “So. Care to share? Who’s he working for?”

Sam hasn’t told Steve or Nat yet either, so everyone’s attention is on him as they clean up and clear out. “Alexander Pierce.”

Bucky flinches. Steve reaches for him at once, grabbing his shoulder. His face has gone chalk white. With visible effort, he shakes himself. “Fuck. _Fuck_.”

“Who’s Alexander Pierce?” Steve demands. “Buck?”

It’s Natasha who answers. “International politician. He’s on a number of high-profile committees, near spotless reputation. Was even nominated for a Nobel peace prize after his work in the Middle East.”

Steve frowns. “Did we get the wrong info?”

“No,” Bucky snaps. Calms himself. “No, we did not. He’s just good at making it seem like his shit don’t stink.” A beat. “I’ve done work for him before. Job spun out of control, none of us were told the truth of what we were doing, most of us ran. Later, I hear our target was found dead. I severed all ties with the people from that job, vetted my contacts again. He shouldn’t…. he shouldn’t have access to my name, I fucking buried that, what if—”

“Buck, we’ll get through this,” Steve promises. “He’s not gonna get to you, not to any of us, okay?”

“He’s got my _name_ , Steve—”

“We’re gonna get it _back_. I’m not gonna let anything happen to you.”

Despite the doubt on his face, Bucky goes along with his platitudes.

They run.

Back at the hotel, their stuff is already packed up. Originally, Steve had plans to leave by train—easier to get lost, less chance of being stalled at the border—but now distance is of the essence. He doesn’t let Bucky out of his sight, herds him into a cab and brings him to the airport. It’s standard operation procedure to scatter after a job, but there is absolutely no way he’s leaving Bucky alone after this.

He has to fix this. He has to make sure Bucky is safe.

Everything else can wait, as long as Bucky is safe.

He picks an early flight at random, spins the airport employee a story about their meeting getting moved, making sure to put enough exasperation into it to blend in with all the other semi-polite people coming through. There's less chance of being tracked if there’s no rhyme or reason to their trail, , and as long as they make themselves utterly unremarkable in both looks and manners, they’ll be as good as invisible. They’re travelling under fake identities, of course, but there’s no time to disguise themselves much. They’ve both changed clothes into something less conspicuous; button-downs and slacks. They look like every other business traveler at Charles de Gaulle.

It’s the perfect place to get lost. The traffic here is endless, planes take off seemingly every other minute, and the massive influx and outpour of people make it impossible to keep an eye on everyone. They’re just two white men, perfectly at ease with blending into the background.

“Where’re we going?” Bucky asks as they’re moving through the airport. It’s the first thing he’s said since leaving Batroc’s apartment, deferring to Steve’s every action as he led them away from the city. All the way in the cab, he’d fiddled with his totem, those blank dog-tags clenched in his hand tight enough to imprint themselves on his skin.

“London. Gate 20A.”

Bucky nods. He’s pale still. He looks like he hasn’t slept in days, the bags under his eyes growing by the minute. Steve wants to reach for him, but they haven’t had that conversation yet, he doesn’t know where they stand, and they can’t risk drawing attention. No matter how LGBT-friendly a country claims to be, there’s always more scrutiny of queer couples.

Still, he does his best. He seats them both at the gate, force-feeds Bucky the dry sandwich they’d picked up on the way, and hovers as he eats and drinks. They’ll get through this. They have to. Sam will get the info to Sharon, Sharon will get it to their client, it’ll be—

“We’re boarding.”

Boarding is, as always, a trial on everyone’s patience. Flight attendants truly do not get paid enough. The find their seats quickly; they’ve not got any bags with them, everything has been checked in. Ah, the joys of being a man and being able to carry all your important stuff with you because of decently sized pockets in both your pants and jacket.

“Steve?”

Steve turns. Bucky is watching him steadily, finally looking truly calm. He’s sharply backlit by the window, almost haloed. His hand finds Steve’s, squeezes, and pulls it to Bucky’s lips. He kisses Steve’s palm, turns his face into it and just breathes, eyes squeezed tightly shut.

“We’re gonna be okay,” Steve promises him quietly, back turned to the aisle to shut out the rest of the world.

Bucky nods against him. “Okay. We’re gonna be okay.” He laughs, a little broken. “God, I’ve gotta piss. Think they’ll let me? It’s not like we’ve even left the docking bay yet.”

Hysterically, Steve wants to tell him that he should’ve done that before boarding. It’s the kind of thing that always annoys him when other people do it, but he loves—yes, _loves_ —Bucky enough to just scooch back in his seat and let Bucky climb over him.

Bucky glances back, that broken smile making his lip quiver for just a second.

They’re near the back, so Steve can’t keep his eye on Bucky without looking like either an idiot or a stalker, so he turns back around and fusses with the in-flight magazine instead. He hopes Natasha and Sam are okay. They won’t be in contact for at least another two days, just to ensure neither of them have been tracked.

They’re good people. Good at what they do. They’ll be fine. They _have_ _to_. Even if Steve will have to bully Tony into having more than a few bolt holes ready, a dozen lawyers and bribes, too, if that’s what it takes.

“Sir?”

Steve looks up. “Yes?”

A flight attendant has come to a stop next to him, his carefully tweezed eyebrows scrunched down. He looks uncomfortable, but if you aren’t used to reading people—something you learn quickly as a thief of Steve’s caliber—it’s almost hidden behind his well-crafted customer service smile.

“Sir, I’m afraid I have some bad news…” He holds his hand out. Numbly, Steve reaches out. “Your fian—ex? Boyfriend?—man told me to say that he’s sorry, but it’s better this way. That he’s doing this for the both of you. I’m sorry, sir.”

He drops a dog-tag into Steve’s palm.

“ _Cabin crew, please be seated for take-off._ ”

Bucky’s gone. He’s gone, gone, _gone,_ slipped away just as the doors were closing, beguiling eyes clearing his path. He’d had his jacket still on. He’s got his passport(s), his wallet, everything he needs to run. He’ll be fine without his checked bag.

That son of a—that fucking idiot.

Steve could get up and make a fuss until they let him get off. But if Bucky’s story was good enough to let him off the plane, there’s no way the cabin crew are going to let Steve storm after him, not without delaying him, and by then, Bucky will be gone.

So Steve stays seated, staring down at that blank little tag, Bucky’s lifeline. God, how could he be so stupid? Of course Bucky was going to run. _Of course_. Ten years’ worth of mutual vague distrust doesn’t just disappear because you find out you're in love. They’ve never relied on each other like this before, and he told Steve, he _told_ him, “I’m not your damsel”, God, he’s such a fucking bastard sometimes—

There’s a message scratched into the other side of the tag.

Barely distinguishable—Bucky must have used the nib of a pen or something, it definitely isn’t defined enough to be key scratches. He _had_ been fiddling with the tags all day…

And it’s not a message. It’s an address in Brooklyn.

A light goes up in Steve’s chest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the dash of angst  
> except im not sorry


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which Steve solves problems like a boss

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my beta was right and i need another chapter after this

It’s been months and their client—Mr. Nicholas J. Fury, director a shady government agency that may or may now have armed forces and not just fancy offices filled with bureaucrats—hasn’t done anything with the evidence they’ve provided. Oh, he’s paid for it, and compiled it, and cross-referenced it, and put it together to tell a story. But has anything been done with that story? No.

No news, no action, no nothing.

Steve’s been watching Fury. He’s been pulling strings, calling in favors. At first, he’d thought Fury was simply cautious. Prudent, if frustrating, when you’re the one waiting for the results to come through. But now, Steve’s starting to think that he won’t actually do shit.

That’s why he’s in Fury’s office.

The secretary isn’t happy about his presence; she hadn’t even wanted to let him in the door. However, there’s nothing that can stop Steve Rogers from doing anything he sets his mind to, so he’d simply made his way in through the window instead. Climbing the wall in dress shoes is not pleasant, by the way.

The secretary makes him wait for hours. At first, she tells him that Fury isn’t in today, but when Steve doesn’t budge, she flat out ignores him. It’s rather telling that she hasn’t called security on him, however; he’s pretty sure that Fury is the one telling her to wait and watch him, just to see what he’ll do. Steve can play that game. Not happily, but he can. Besides… he’s not here to bargain.

He’s the diversion.

As long as they’re watching him, they’re not noticing Tony hacking their servers literally from the basement. He’d been more than happy to come along when Steve asked, had even magicked up a workman’s uniform from somewhere.

Finally, as most of the building empties, Fury walks in.

Steve’s first impression is that he’s much taller than he’d expected. Add in the intentional looming, and Fury appears massive, a force to be reckoned with. He wears an eyepatch, but it cannot quite cover the scars around that area, pale and puckered against his dark skin. He’s simply, if stylishly, dressed, and has the air of a competent, clear-headed strategist.

“Mr. Rogers,” he greets frostily in a tone that says _you are already on my last nerve._ Steve’s smiles sunnily at him, just to eradicate that last bit of goodwill that Fury might have had for him. “What might I do for you today?”

Right to business. “I think you know,” Steve says.

Fury does. He sighs. “I know this isn’t progressing at the speed you want it to, but there are delicate nuances to be considered when dealing with someone like Pierce.”

“It’s not just progressing slowly, it’s not progressing _at all,_ ” Steve insists, then meanly adds, “I hope this has nothing to do with your personal relationship with Pierce.”

Fury glares, but that’s just his neutral expression. Steve’s little jab hasn’t hit its target. “I once counted Alexander a friend. But that was before I knew. Why else would I have hired you? To protect him? Please, Rogers. Alexander Pierce has endangered us all, and I will not stand by.”

“And yet, here we are, still endangered.”

“I appreciate that subtlety is lost on you,” Fury says, leaning forward. “But this is about more than just Pierce. We need to bring it all down. He knows too many powerful people. With his influence, he might easily walk, despite solid proof.”

Steve drums his fingers. Forces himself not to flip the table. “I understand,” he says.

“Do you now?”

“Sure. The law can’t touch him.”

“Not if we don’t do this correctly—”

But Steve isn’t listening anymore. Fury’s kidding himself, prancing around on his high horse. He’s used illegal means to get the proof he needs, but now he’s all about legal means, trusting in a system that has already failed to keep Pierce in check and will most likely let him walk, if they ever get that far.

Luckily, Steve has never had much use for the law. 

*

Tony gleefully waves a thumb drive at Steve when they reunite in the car.

“Every associate, known and suspected,” he says. He’s still in his workman’s overalls and smeared with oil. Where the hell did he get that from? Computers don’t use oil, do they? Is Steve just technologically inept? “Every judge, every politician, every bit of blackmail that’s ever cleared his way. Compilations from dark web accounts and message boards. Truly, if he wasn’t such a scumbag, I’d be impressed by his reach.”

“Thank you, Tony,” Steve says. Hesitates, then: “There nothing about—”

“Your boy? Nope. Well. Not anymore. Not on Fury’s servers either. Can’t promise there’s no physical copies, but that’s more your area. I’m guessing your talk didn’t go well? To Thor’s, then?”

Steve nods.

Thor’s is a bar on the Lower East Side, run by the eponymous Thor. He’s a big, affable man with blond hair and a big beard, strong, and kind, and much smarter than he appears. He’s careful to keep up that pretense and it serves him well.

When Steve walks up to the bar, Thor takes one look at him and goes, “They’re upstairs. Kick the menace out if—actually, kick the menace out anyway, I could use an extra set of hands down here.”

The apartment above the bar is small and cramped, but cozy in its own way. Thor mostly uses it for an office, but there’s a few comfortable spaces to sleep, too, and a kitchenette with a breakfast nook. That is where Steve finds Thor’s siblings.

Looking at these two, you’d think Thor was the adopted one of the three. Loki and Hela are both black-haired and pale, with eerily light-colored eyes and smirks like the world should pray it continues to amuse them, or else. Loki, the youngest, is a thief and a jack-of-all-trades in the dream-business and quite a formidable one, too, but he prefers working alone or with his siblings, if need be.

Hela, on the other hand…

Now there’s a woman you don’t cross. Of course, that’s why Steve is here.

“Loki,” he greets.

“Steven. Am I to infer from your tone that my presence is needed elsewhere?”

“If you don’t mind.”

Loki isn’t overly pleased, but he leaves. It helps that Steve’s usually on his good side, as much as one can be with Loki; they like to talk art and have even gone to museums together. That leaves Steve with Hela whom he doesn’t know at all; mostly because she doesn’t particularly like anybody but her brothers, but with the right incentive, she’s willing to tolerate you for as long as it takes to talk details, and then you best be on your way.

Thus, Steve wastes no time. “We got the info. If you take the head, we’ll deal with the rest.”

“Boring,” Hela drawls. “But fine.” Then, as Steve is about to leave: “I have been wondering why you don’t just do it yourself. I doubt very much that you don’t know where he is.”

Steve nods. “I know. And if I could, I would.”

She tilts her head. “No moral qualms at all? That’s not quite what your reputation would have me believe. Your lovers influence, perhaps? Or is it fear of the repercussions?”

“No,” Steve snaps, then reins it in. Don’t antagonize the assassin with the infamously short fuse. “My… _He_ wouldn’t consider this. Even if he’d be able to, he wouldn’t do it. And it’s not that I don’t have second thoughts; it’s just that I’m done waiting. As for the repercussions: I don’t give a fuck. Fury can come for me all he likes, but I’m betting he doesn’t. I don’t think he would, even if I carried it out myself, but I’m leaving it to you, because I don’t have the skill to get in and get out alive. Thieving’s my line of work.”

“And killing is mine.” She nods. “Pleasure doing business with you, Steve Rogers.”

*

A week later, Alexander Pierce is dead, and every person he’s ever had in his pocket is in deep shit; their names have just been splashed across the internet (thank you, Tony) and the public has questions. It’s all the news can talk about; the hitherto blemish-free politician, turns out he was rotten to the core. What a mess; how can we ever trust the system again, see how many were in his pocket? Something has to be done. Fury is one of the people ready to step in; no doubt he isn’t happy about the methods, but at least now Alexander won’t walk. And since no one’s come knocking on Steve’s door either, he’s going to call all that a day.

Instead, Steve has other worries.

There’s a house in Brooklyn Heights. It’s not a brownstone, just a common rowhouse, and a beautiful one at that. It sits in the middle of the street, and there are people in and out seemingly at all hours. The Barnes family is big, and happy, and lively.

Steve walks right up.

His palms are sweaty. Sweaty enough to crease the postcard in his hand. He’s been around here before, has been checking in ever since he came home to the states, but this is the first time he’s breaching the little bubble separating his everyday life from Bucky’s. After this, there’s no going back—and frankly, Steve doesn’t want to.

He’s not going to knock and say hello. Bucky may have given him his name, thus allowing Steve to track down his family, but while Steve wants very badly to be introduced to Bucky’s family, he’ll only do so with Bucky leading him through the door. Anything else feels like crossing a boundary they haven’t yet mapped out in its entirety.

That’s why he’s chosen the afternoon to swing by; less chance of accidentally meeting any of Bucky’s family members, the mailman has been and gone, and there are no nosy neighbors to notice Steve silently freaking out on the stoop.

Taking a deep breath, he slips the postcard into the mailbox, then turns and walks away.

The card reads: _Dear Bucky: my name is…_ The return address is for Stiofán O’Doirnáin.

The ball is in Bucky’s court now.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which Bucky finally comes home, they talk, and the story ends

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this took way, WAY too long for me to write, and i'm sorry, but it's finally done! it's maybe a little too quick for how much they've been through, but to me, it just fit, so this is how i end it
> 
> thank you all for sticking with me and for your kind words and kudos!

Bucky doesn’t come back at once, which Steve, personally, thinks is rather rude. He just had murder committed on his behalf, the least he could do is show up for the aftermath. But alright, Steve can wait. It’s fine. He can keep busy.

At least that’s what he tells everyone else.

“Yeah, Ma, I got the shortening,” Steve says into his phone as he balances his shopping bags on the way into his home. He’s carrying all of them at once, because you don’t make two trips, damn it. “Why would I even lie about getting shortening?”

“Oh, so it wasn’t my son who got margarine the last time I asked for shortening?” Sarah says, voice theatrically raised in wonderment.

“That was one time! And it worked just fine.” The latter is added under his breath.

“What was that, honey?”

“Nothing, Ma. Gotta run, the ice cream is melting, I’ll see you soon, yeah? Bye.”

He drops the phone from between his ear and shoulder, then clumsily puts the grocery bags on the kitchen table and sighs. His house is a mess; this is the first time he’s been outside in three days. He knows he needs to do something about that, but… look, he’s just had a shitty week, okay?

According to Sam, he’s being ‘really fucking dramatic, Steve, what the hell’. Sam needs to mind his own business and leave Steve to deal. Maybe Steve should get a typewriter and a pipe and commit to becoming the eccentric old man he’s always been destined to become. 

It’s been nearly a month since the assassination of Alexander Pierce, three weeks since Steve left what basically amounts to a treasure map with a big, fat X-marks-the-spot on it, but Bucky still hasn’t been to see him. Steve has restrained himself from monitoring the Barnes house—he was already on a level that would’ve been creepy in every other context—but he has been keeping in touch with Sam, Nat, and Tony, basically anyone who might be able to find out if Bucky enters the US. 

As for Bucky himself, all Steve got was a text from an unknown number that just said, “Not yet.” The number had been disconnected right after.

It’s not even that Steve believes that Bucky won’t return, and not just because Brooklyn is his home. Steve knows in his heart that Bucky would’ve come back even without that. You don’t give a man your name like you’re giving a vow and then run off to another planet (or wherever else Bucky might have gone to ground).

“He’ll come back,” Natasha keeps saying. “But he’ll do it his way.”

Well, Bucky’s way appears to be ‘wait for Steve to get gray hairs’, and Steve is heartily sick of it. He’s never been good at sitting around—a bit of an oddity in an Architect, whose job mostly relies on being able to sit around drawing mazes all day—and once he’s decided on something, he’s all in.

And his heart has been set for ten years; he’s finally aware to appreciate the longing that comes with that.

Thus: pie-making.

It’s a tradition in Steve’s small family. Celebrating something? Bake pie. Sad? Bake pie. Sweet tooth aching? Bake pie. Feeling a little—doesn’t matter. Bake. The God. Damn. Pie.

Usually, though, it’s Sarah who bakes it, not so much Steve himself. Sure, he’ll do the prep work, cutting the fruit, stirring in the sugar mixture, chopping the chocolate, those kinds of things. But the crust is another matter entirely, and he tends to just get the pre-made stuff, but that, apparently, is a sin in Sarah Rogers’ eyes, and it had been easier to just go shopping rather than trying to argue with her.

He unpacks the groceries, puts away those he doesn’t immediately need, and washes his hands. Time to get down to it. Dough first—and why does dough always insist on being recalcitrant? This is why he buys readymade. Roll the dough, halve it, and put aside.

Now the filling. Steve’s family does apple pie a little differently than most people. He likes the classic apple pie a whole lot, but he does prefer this way; with a thin layer of apple butter along the bottom and up the sides, no nutmeg, and brown sugar instead of sugar, then add extra cinnamon. It’s sweet as hell, and you get sugar stuck between your teeth, but it’s the most wonderful thing in the world.

Assembling it goes… well, it goes. There’ll be pie at the end, and that’s what matters.

He pops it in the oven and looks around his (even messier) kitchen. He’s got flour on his cheek, sugar-cinnamon-mix under his nails, and his hands smell like apples. Clean up is always the worst part of—

“You know, I wanted to surprise you in bed, but I fell asleep,” a voice says. “I swear, my plan worked flawlessly in my mind.”

Steve spins around, clutching his totem medallion.

Bucky stands in the doorway, face lit by a soft, uncertain smile. His hair is a mess and there are pillow creases across his cheek. His clothes are rumbled, and he’s fidgeting a little, obviously forcing himself to meet Steve’s gaze head-on.

“Bucky,” Steve breathes. It’s real. It’s _real_. Not a dream.

“Hi, Stevi—oof!”

Steve crushes him in a hug and kisses him and kisses him and kisses him. He doesn’t stop to think that maybe they should talk first, maybe there are things that need addressing. All that matters is that Bucky is here, Bucky has slept in his bed, and Bucky _came back._

There’s time for talking later.

*

They almost burn the pie.

“What’s this ‘we’ business, I am in no way in charge of the pie,” Bucky protests, seated on the counter in just his underwear and one of Steve’s shirts. He’s grinning like he does when he bickers with Steve, all cat-like and pleased.

“Shut up and close the oven, would ya,” Steve says. He, too, is dressed in nearly nothing, having just thrown on whatever was closest when the oven timer finally pierced the haze of happiness and pleasure.

That haze keeps them going for a while, lying heavily over all the things that need to be said, all the things they promised they’d talk about before they parted. Steve wants it to last just a little longer, just a little more, seized as he is by the worry that if they talk, maybe it won’t end the way he wants it to. Sure, Bucky promised—and _Steve_ promised—but there’s that saying with the road to hell and good intentions, and God knows Steve can put his foot in it now and then.

It’s just… how do you start a conversation like that? It’s so _awkward,_ Steve can practically feel himself regressing to being a teenager. Actually, scratch that, he’s pretty sure teenage-Steve had a better grasp of getting to the core of things, mostly because teenage-Steve was ninety pounds of poor impulse control, and adult-Steve is mostly grown out of that (he said _mostly,_ okay, don’t listen to what Sam says).

But he _has_ to say something. The longer he doesn’t, the longer they make jibes and small talk, the more the stress-induced lines around Bucky’s eyes tighten, the more his gaze flickers to the exits. Steve keeps waiting for him to say something, but it appears that Bucky is just as lost as he is. What a pair they make.

There’s nothing for it. Bulldozing it is. “So, remember when I told you that you were the best thing to ever happen to me? I meant that.” He doesn’t break eye-contact; this is too important. “Also, I’m keeping the dog-tag.”

Bucky brows fly up. “Alr—”

“I’m not done.” Apparently, his heart was more prepared for this conversation than his brain, and now it aches to spill itself at Bucky’s feet. “I also want to say that I’m sorry for how I’ve behaved and the things I’ve said while we were doing the whole… nemeses-thing. I know that doesn’t make up for the fights we’ve had or the shit I’ve done, but I want it to be the start of something new, and I want us to find a way to be together without pushing each other away all the time, and I’m sorry in advance for how I’m probably going to fuck this up—”

“Stevie, breathe.”

He breathes. It’s really hot in here. Also, is he having a heart attack? Or is this just what being vulnerable feels like? Disgusting. It’s perfect.

Bucky cradles his face in his hands and looks him in the eyes. “You’re not responsible for that whole mess alone. I went along with it; I knew what I was walking into. And hell, Stevie, it’s not like it was all bad. Sure, we fought more than we talked, but we had good times, and _those_ will be the ones we build on, okay? I’m right here with you. Don’t ever doubt that.”

“I’m not good with emotion, Buck.”

“Obviously.”

Steve blinks. “Excuse you.”

“Don’t squawk at me, Stevie, you said it yourself—”

*

Eventually, they muddle through. It doesn’t get sorted in a single day, or even a single week. It takes a lot of time to undo ten years worth of semi-animosity, and even more to actually make it work between them.

Dating Bucky is not the same as sleeping with Bucky, and for all the things Steve had known about him, there’s even more he didn’t. Like the fact that when he isn’t on a job, he’s not nearly as high-strung, not nearly as detail-oriented with his appearance. Some days, he looks like a homeless racoon and barely even cares to get dressed.

Or that he likes to dance with Steve in the kitchen on rainy mornings. Or that he will gleefully watch bad sci-fi movies over and over and over again. That he’s sweet, and kind, and goofy, that he befriends stray cats, and has a vendetta against a specific band of pigeons.

Steve learns to fit his sharp-edged pieces to Bucky’s, just as Bucky learns to do the same.

And when there’s a job to do? The Dream-world learns that Steve and Bucky come as a matched set.


End file.
